My First Acid Trip
by Nathan Munn
Nick and I were sitting in the basement of his parents’ house, waiting for Tim. Amid the storage boxes, pairs of skis, and miscellaneous furniture, an area had been cleared for a TV, a coffee table and a couple of couches, all anchored together on a thick rug. Tonight, the three of us would be sleeping here; we were all 14, and as per routine, we were aiming to get high.
A couple hours earlier, the three of us had pooled our money and handed Tim $20 (about $38, in today’s money) to try to score some hash—a risky venture. Though we’d been smoking dope for about a year, we still hadn’t found a solid connection; every time we wanted to score, one of us had to drum up the courage to ride the bus to Ottawa’s downtown core and navigate the dirty streets and chaotic food court of the Rideau Centre, a sprawling mall overrun with wayward teenagers, predatory thieves and low-level drug dealers roaming among the families and senior citizens.
Tim had been tasked with scoring a gram of the dry, crumbly hash we'd been picking up semi-regularly from a sketchy group of twenty-somethings on Rideau Street. But what we were really after was acid. We’d already been ripped off a few times—given fake blotter paper with an admonishment to “Get outta here, now, before cops come!”—or simply ignored by the dealer after he took our money. After these failed attempts, we’d given up on scoring LSD and resigned ourselves to chasing a cheap hash buzz.
Soon Tim bounded down the stairs into the basement, skateboard in hand and long blond hair flying.
“Sorry, boys. Couldn't get any hash.”
Nick and I groaned. It was Saturday night.
Tim smiled conspiratorially. “But I did get some acid.”
Keep us breathing fire!
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