“See, boys,” said Jim, stuffing his pipe with weed. “There’s no place here for us. Not because we’re unfit for life, but because life is unfit for us. We can’t use it full-time.” “Yeah,” nodded the ragged bearded man with a book of poems under his arm. “We’re already dead.” “Listen,” Jim went on, climbing onto his motorcycle. “At least you’ve got something. You’ve got those Morrison poems and you enjoy them. And me? Even this fucking pipe doesn’t give me joy anymore. You know, when I still had a guitar…” “Then why the fuck did you sell it?” The bearded man was clearly disgusted. “To buy this…” Jim pointed to a pouch stuffed with dried Indian hemp bought from Blake. “It had fire in it. It used to…” Jim fired up the motor. He never wore a helmet; the only thing he put on his head while riding was a big black hat from the magic year 1969. “Fucking Summer of Love.” The bearded man sat behind Jim and they rode off into the night.
1
“I’ve heard a lot about peyote,” Jim shouted over the roar of the engine. “What do you think, Spike, is there still some of that shit left?” “I don’t know. Speed up.” “It’s 1971, you think there’s still some of it on that fucking desert?” “Speed up,” Spike urged. “Do you fucking hear me? We’ve already got 100 miles on the meter. What more do you want? Did you hear the question?” “Yeah…” said Spike, digging lice out of his beard. “Strange the wind doesn’t blow them out…” “Fucking talk to me!!!” Jim slowed down noticeably. “Is there still some of that shit?” “Relax. There’s bound to be a fuckload of cacti there, like on any decent fucking Mexican desert.” “And gangs?” “Fuck them. They’re cowardly muchachos. When they see some gringo in dark glasses on a dark bike, they run wherever they can. Hide behind fucking cacti.” “And cops?” “Here? No patrol reaches here. This is New Mexico, my friend. I know a desert…”
The roar of the engine drowned everything. No cop cars nearby. No bars either. “I regret this bike only has two seats,” Jim muttered, remembering the long legs and firm asses of hitchhikers left behind. “Maybe I’ll throw you off…”
Spike ignored him, still picking lice from his thick mane. He was strange. Sometimes apathetic, deaf to words. Sometimes he woke up and talked about everything with everyone. Strange, but one of a kind. Few could survive the doses of alcohol he poured into himself. Few would take hallucinogens daily like he did. Few looked like him in an age of hairdressers and fashion salons. He was a primal man. “Oh yes, Spike. You and your needs fit perfectly with prehistoric people,” Jim summed up. “Must’ve been beautiful times. I think so.” “Too bad we live today…” Spike fell asleep.
(...)
They reached the desert Spike called the Red Lady. Scientifically it surely had another name, but nobody cared. Jim was surprised by the emptiness. No procession of girls, just sand, cacti, and a lizard. They left the bike by the biggest cactus so they could find it later during visions. Everyone knows: nothing like riding a bike on peyote. Hard to start, hard to stop. Last time in ’68 Jim only stopped when the tank ran dry. Incredible. “So where are your chicks?” Jim asked. Spike was busy cutting the cactus, extracting the elixir of old Indian gods. “So where are the girls?” Jim repeated. “In your head,” Spike replied, handing him a wooden bowl of raw, pure peyote.
And they saw the procession. A dancing snake of salvation. Space lost meaning, distances shrank to nothing. “Come on,” urged Spike. “The bike…” They found it, mounted, and the whole procession rode on one machine. Jim had secretly filled the tank. The engine howled, sand lifted. The mystical desert vehicle.
2
They rode straight into the rising sun. It danced on the horizon. A revelation. No cars, no road. Just forward, into the sun. A shining arrow pierced its heart. It lasted so briefly. They crashed, landing softly on sand. Out of fuel. The meter showed 365 miles. Impossible. They must’ve crossed a border, refueled somewhere. But maybe not. Just dry, reddish wasteland.
(...)
Jim drifted into visions of primal forests, half-naked hairy beings, simple beauty. He was their god. He ate, drank, loved. But when he returned, they had built a cult, an altar, a system. He had destroyed purity. He cried. He dove deeper, but found nothing. Stars blinked too fast. The journey ended back on the desert.
“Welcome back to the living, Jim,” Spike laughed. “I saw primality,” Jim’s pupils still wide from peyote. “You saw shit,” Spike said, showing him a can of gasoline. “Fill the tank, let’s go. Why didn’t you say you had gas?” “I forgot.” “Dickhead.”
They rode off, sandstorm behind them, back to the highway. Same town again. They were glad—they knew where they were. “I’ll never visit the Red Lady again,” Spike declared. “You shouldn’t either. I think I’ll become a total abstainer.” “Sure…” Jim doubted.
(...)
They entered a bar called Alice in Wonderland. Dusty neon showed a White Rabbit holding a beer mug. Inside: psychedelic posters of The Doors and Jefferson Airplane, broken chairs, filthy tables, battered guitar on stage. The bartender aimed a shotgun at them, smiling ironically. Jim panicked, Spike laughed. The laugh turned into a roar. The bartender approached, pressed the barrel to Spike’s chest, and shook his hand. “Welcome, Orlean!” Spike grinned. “You fucking know each other?” Jim gasped. “You know each other…”
3 (Long Play)
They drank beer. Orlean slung the guitar, fetched a Harley, and said: “I’m riding with you, boys.”
(...)
They reached the Land of the Sun studio in New Mexico. Cheap, sometimes free. Blake, the manager, welcomed them, brought beer, locked them in with instruments. They recorded raw takes: “Hymn To God, My God In My Sickness,” “Purple Haze,” ten more, and finally Spike and Orlean did “LA Woman.” Blake pressed a vinyl the next day, cover recycled from another band, name changed to The Orlean Experience.
(...)
They rode toward FireDawnOle, the hippie commune. They never arrived.
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