Chapter 2 - Acid in San Francisco, 1965

The phone rings and Terence ignores it. He hold his cup of coffee a perfect inch above the table as his eyes sear the meaning off the printed pages before him. He's immersed in the textbook notes on the development of improved nuclear warheads to be utilised in the chess game of Cold War politics: And the incidental prospect of the annihilation of all life on Earth. Sorry - all life other than scorpions, cockroaches and their friends.

He realises with annoyance that the insistent bring-bring is not about to go away, He lifts himself from his hunched posture over the desk and stretches his large shoulders back with a satisfying crack. Then he stomps across his mother's floorboards to pick up the receiver.

"Yes?" he asks like a piqued scholar, roused from his studies.

"Terry, man! Is that you? It's Fred! Yeah, well what are you doing at home? Everyone's down at Bernie's house and we're having a hell of a time - hey quit prodding me! I'm trying to talk to Terry!"

"Listen, Fred, you know I'm busy with-"

Aw, come on, Terry! Everyone's here and - Ah wait a second, Michelle wants to talk to you."

"Michelle? Why does she-"

"Hello, Terry?" Her soft voice somehow comes through the party commotion without any effort.

"Uh, hi, Michelle! What's up?"

"Oh, you know, cool." He can hear her smiling, "Why aren't you here?"

"Uh, I was just on my way out of the door when the phone rang - Pour me a glass of punch and I'll be there before it gets cold…or warm or whatever."

Putting the phone down, he reaches for his jacket and then hesitates as he ruefully eyes his neglected studies sprawled across the table. He'd better put them away or else his mother will go crazy again. Still, it was a shame to leave before he'd even had the time to look at the distribution of mass across the-

The phone rings again and Terence propels himself out of the door without answering.

Ignoring the furious summons of the pedestrian crossing, Terence pauses by a shop window to check his hair. Tufts stick out at gawky angles and he spits on his hand to attempt a few smoothing swipes. His hair pretends to comply but he suspects it's just biding its time to cripple his charisma at a crucial moment.

He could have done with changing his shirt he realises, as the story of his chocolate donut breakfast is still evident against the white cotton. But when he slings his jacket on the shoulder the stains are concealed and with his new jeans he doesn't look too bad. Maybe he can buy some deodorant on the way.

He turns and picks his way through the traffic to the other side of the road and pulls his belt to relieve the sudden pressure in his crotch. Heavy balls. Though a virgin at 24, his sexual poverty remains only a background concern for Terence. Deep cleavages and curvaceous hips barely make an appearance in the world of theorems, equations and proven laws to which he belongs. Admittedly, at times his concentration drifts a little whilst awaiting the catalytic effect of his prepared solutions: He might find himself thinking of how to come up with a comment of devastating wit in front of the pretty females to be found sipping coffee in the cafeteria.

However this is unknown territory and he's far better qualified to perform in the laboratory in his ceremonial robes of white. Here there is little uncertainty. All qualities can be measured and defined And there is no chance of them transforming their nature when he wants to grab a beer from the fridge. When something occurs once in the lab it can pretty damn well be relied upon to behave the same way again, given similar circumstances and procedures. Neutrons don't find him charming one day and a dull windbag the next. In the realm of physics Terence feels safe and appreciated. Though he might not admit as such in words, he cherishes an intimacy with the laws of science and depends upon their reliability as he might rest his head on a sweetheart's shoulder.

The party can be heard from a street away and as Terence walks closer, he's eyed with suspicion by the disgruntled residents of this well-to-do suburbia. They have come outside to lean upon their garden fences in miffed protest at that damned infernal noise coming from those deranged delinquents in the Jones' house --damn, I told you they were bad types when they first moved their disreputable butts into our neighbourhood. And they call that music? The cars sound better when they screech at night and I just bet there's all kinds of sinful stuff going on.

The doors to the house are wide open and couples with beer cans clutched in their hands whisper above the wailing guitar solos that punish the sound system inside. On either side of the gravel path are squares of lawn on which groups of young bodies lie prone, giggling excitedly as the lose themselves in the close-up world of the grass and mud.

Slightly unnerved, Terence lets himself in the gate and walks past the bodies in the garden as if he hasn't noticed. The inside does little to reassure him that all is well as everyone wanders around wide-eyed in the carpeted hallways, in hysterics for no apparent reason. He guesses it must just be the effects of the fog of marijuana that obscures the tasteful lay-out of the leather couches, glass coffee tables and mantelpieces full of interesting souvenirs.

He's just considering if this is really his kind of scene when something very pleasant lands on his arm. He turns to the soft, warm hand and follows the view up from the wrist to the inviting inside of an elbow, up a slender arm to a neck he already wants to eat and unto an elfish face of grinning cheeks, wide lips and glistening eyes: the same stunning colour as the auburn hair hanging loose to her shoulders.

" Uh, hey, Michelle." He smiles nervously and then leans forwards in a jerky motion to kiss her cheek, with the result that their heads collide. Fortunately, she finds this funny and brushes aside his stumbling apologies.

"Let's go and sit somewhere!" She tells him and tugs his hand through the hallway and through to the main room which is lit in purple and green. The music is louder here and they have to shout in each other's ears to be heard. Not that Terence minds having Michelle's lips and hot breath this close.

"So I don't see you out of college very often!" She yells. He shrugs and hollers back.

"Well, I'm busy with the nuclear programme."

"Oh yeah?"

"I said I'm busy with-"

"I heard you!"

"Oh. Well, anyway, we've been given a whole new grant to investigate possibilities of more economical components-" He wants to stop talking, knows that he's losing her attention and finally just peters out. She's already looking elsewhere, seeming unaware that he's no longer talking.

The vacuum is filled by the blustering entrance of Harry who jumps into the room and crouches into a martial arts pose. His eyes scan each direction behind his long brown hair until they fall upon Terry on the couch.

"Terry! My man!" Leaping forwards and grabbing his cheeks in effusive friendliness. " I've got something for you, kid! Here you go!" He hands over a bundled cloth. Unfolding it, Terence finds that it's a T-shirt with the slogan printed on it reading: 'Sex? Don't be ridiculous - we're physicists!"

He's about to unleash a tirade of peeved annoyance when he becomes aware that Michelle is shaking with laughter at his side and feels her head land upon his shoulder. He manages to laugh as well,

"Yeah! Good one, Harry! Nice to know you care!" Harry splays smiling teeth and then frowns. He leaps up with a dismayed cry of:

"The music is not right!" He bounces over to the record player and removes the electric funk from the stereo stage. The silence stuns the room and all conversations fade instantly. Harry withdraws from shoulder bag a record of his own and, moments later, the disorientated are appeased by tender tabla rhythms that ease the atmosphere like an aural massage. He leaps around lighting candles by very group and couple, achieving a graceful coup d'etat of vibe. An appreciative murmur follows him around the room.

The candle is lit on the square table before Terry and Michelle and she gasps in delight. She sinks down to her knees on the carpet and leans in to lose herself in the steady flame.

"Come!" She whispers without looking up. Terry obediently sits himself cross-legged on the opposite side. "Wow! There's like whole worlds in there if you can just forget enough about this one!" Terry becomes uneasily aware that she's acting kind of strange but she seems too alert to be drunk or stoned. "And it's a different flame all the time," she continues with rapt gaze "though we don't see the transition - just like with life! You know what I mean?" She looks up for the first time in minutes and searches his eyes for the understanding that is clearly not there. He desperately hunts for the right words.

"I guess. And when you consider the atomic-"

"Say!" she interrupts with a lit expression over the yellow flame "You're not high yet are you?"

"Oh, I don't feel like smoking. Now a beer would be-"

"I'm not talking about grass, Terry!" She winks a sultry eyelash and disappears out of the room. He waits around, wondering if she'll let him kiss her, when she returns with a plastic cup in her hand. She places it in his and he takes a smell.

"Punch? Well, okay if-"

"Acid, Terry! Acid!" She whispers excitedly "Go on - I promise you won't be disappointed." His mind is assailed by images of crazed youths hurling themselves off tall buildings in the hope of flight, of scrambled brains lost in catatonic psychosis and of the rumours of planted Russian chemical weapons. But her fingers creep around the sides of the table to squeeze his feet and it's a little too hard to say 'no'. He swallows the dosed drink and hopes that the newspapers are wrong about this stuff.

To keep his apprehension at bay, Terry begins to jabber on about all the trifling concerns that wallow in the shallows of his mind. She stares deep into his eyes, waiting for him to join her on the elevated planes of perception. She doesn't really listen to the words but just waits until he runs himself dry. At first he is too shy to return her gaze. He looks in every other possible direction as he pursues the fraying threads of his discourse. But gradually, his focus returns to her eyes again and again, each time lingering for longer. His flow of gibberish slows, until they are set with a stare into the gateways of each other's souls.

Her irises swell and rise with each beat of her heart and he realises that no one has bothered to look at him this way since he was a child. Even as he feels her hands squeeze his toes he realises that her eyes smile all by themselves. The suave brown centres floating in a sea of experience so much greater than his that it floods over him and he becomes wet, soaked with this strange moisture.

Her hand rises to brush the tears from his cheek and he smiles, his eyes closing slightly and his vision fractalizes with the salty wash, shafts of rainbow light springing from all directions. It's so beautiful. They grow and recede by the slightest motion of his eyelids.

"Don't hide inside, Terry!" She scolds him "Look at me!" He does and wonders how he could ever choose another view. His hand reaches out to trace the line of her elegant nose.

"You're so beautiful." He admits without inhibition. She sees that he has joined her up high and she beckons for him to kneel. They kiss over the patient candle flame that casts the moment into gold. With the touch of her lips, Terry has no doubt that he's at last on the right track. A new voice from depths he never knew he had urges him to throw himself in this new direction with abandon. He lets reality slide and surrenders to the flow through which Michelle guides him. They float in a space vast and wonderful, striking and terrible. There are no horizons on which to tag the sights they behold; no features by which to orient themselves and the vast expanse makes them seem very small indeed.

But strangely, far from being scared by these new feelings, Terry is quite at home in this abstract dimension. He spreads his wings in a psychic freedom which is somehow very natural and familiar. This is not something to be measured and processed - he wouldn't know where to begin - but that's as it should be, he realises. It's actually quite a relief to float in this new, nameless space beyond all stop-watch and thermometer control.

Hand-in-hand they drift on the backs of sitar melodies out of the room and though to the garden. Large trees at the far end screen the dancing shadows cast by the neglected wood fire. Terry throws more branches from the pile onto the embers and Michelle dances around on the grass, her long yellow dress twirling with the renewed life of the fire. Everything turns fairytale. She sits in his lap by the flames. They chase each other in the dark avenues beneath the trees. They lie flat on their back and compose silly stories about every star. Secrets are spoken in hushed tones, dreams unravelled, kisses exchanged and laughter rings like silver in the ears of these two young lovers.

Dawn finds them sitting upon the bough of a tree, a little higher than the roof of the house. Palm upon palm, they sit quietly watching the sky come back to life with the first blood of the day upon the Eastern rim. Blue finches hop tentatively onto the branch just above Michelle's head and she holds her breath as the birds muster the courage to hop onto her shoulder. Barely suppressing her joy, she glances sideways at Terry to see if he has noticed their new friend. To her disappointment she sees that he is far away. His face is set in a frown, his shoulders hunched forwards and his eyes closed in pain.

"Hey, Terry! What's up?" She asks, placing a hand on his knee with a reassuring squeeze and the bird flies away. He attempts to speak but the words choke in his throat and it takes him a few tries before he is coherent. Still gazing into the East for answers he explains:

"I… I'm fucked-up!" He blurts out, turning to face her to see if she understands. He wants to put his thoughts into some kind of order but they swirl one step ahead of his tongue, refusing to settle down. Images of atomic particles play chase on the flip side of his forehead, There are mushrooms puffing up to spray-paint the sky into bleeding pink, white and radioactive red. Orientals eating rice look up in fear until their mutated noses grow to block their view.

He blinks and he's back in America sitting beside a girl too beautiful for it all to be true. The nightmare movies are waiting for the next time he blinks and he's not sure where he is anymore. Michelle doesn't know the details but the story is clear enough.

"Terry, listen: Stay cool. You're still on your trip and you don't need to get hung up on any one vibe."

"Michelle, there's no other place to look. It's like I'm finally seeing that I'm neck-deep in shit."

"I don't smell anything." She smiles, stroking his leg.

There is an inch of sweat on his forehead and his shoulders have tensed up to his ears in despair. He struggles to breathe deeply and his grip upon the branch has increased until his fingers have turned white. They sit without talking. Terry writhes on his self-made cross and Michelle wonders if there's anything she can do. It's painful to watch but she hopes it's just part of the birth process of this late-starter. She's only scared that he might take the wrong direction and retreat further into his own fear.

She so wants him to flower into his true potential, that she regards it now as partly her responsibility to point out the way. Michelle knows what it is to break free of the shackles of the mind, the tightropes one must walk to each revelation and the Abyss that lies in wait for a wrong step. Yes, she has felt the clasping fingers of hopelessness reach for her when a breeze questioned her step. But she knows that she will never fall as long as her head is held up.

She also knows that Terence is alone now and that she can only give such help as he asks for. So she waits and watches as the sun struggles over the lip of the land and awakens the hung-over streets of the city. Their faces turn amber and the bird song around them rises in volume. The light filters through the leaves to weave lattices upon the pair. A couple of bees begin to make their morning rounds, collecting what pollen there may be left from the remaining blossoms of Spring.

Terry opens his eyes again and tears fall out as he does so. He blinks at Michelle and declares:

"Everything's is in such perfect harmony here except for me. If I'm seeing right then I can't go on with what I'm doing." He reaches for her hand, "But how can I let go if I don't know where to go?"

" You just trust, Terry.

"In what? God?" He snorts bitterly.

"In me for a start." She tells him, leaning towards him and holding his head in a deep kiss, breathing her reassurances into his mouth. They emerge from the embrace and find themselves drunk with longing. Terry finds that his despair has been upstaged by a sudden lust. Life goes on.

"You know, we could go to my room." Michelle suggests. They slip down the tree and wander through the garden that is greener than anything terry has ever seen before. He would stay and get lost in lawns and bushes but a soft yet insistent hand is guiding him through the hallways of the house, strewn with party debris and crashed-out bodies and out into the front garden to the street. They close the gate behind them and drift down the sidewalk with gleeful yelps and giggles as they go, their passion confined to the sweaty touch of clasped palm, for the moment.