Mushroom.Man Page 4

  We arrived in a small village where Greg said ‘I think this is it. There’s a path down to the river somewhere near here.’

  Jane suggested we ask in the shop outside which we had stopped. She got out to go in and Greg I followed. An elderly woman eyed us through thick glasses. Suddenly I saw the three of us in this village shop – Jane with long boots, a short miniskirt, a tiny tank-top with no bra; Greg with long blonde hair and a fur jacket; and me, hiding behind them.

  ‘You here for the pageant?’

  As Jane said no, a wave of explosive laughter came from my stomach. Greg’s shoulders were shaking as he tried to stifle a laugh. It didn’t occur to us to go outside and leave Jane to it, we just stood there, quietly convulsed, as the woman gave Jane directions while staring at us as you might at two escaped loonies. We came out of the shop and I was surprised to see that the van had a luminous halo around it. It was working.

  I had had moments like the one in the shop when tripping with acid. More often than not these moments had reduced me to a sense of panic – inability to deal with money or answer seemingly bizarre questions. Things became impossibly complicated with acid. I remember walking home once in the early morning, tripping, when a policeman on a motorbike stopped me.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  He cocked his head and eyed me beadily, knowingly.

  ‘Don’t let me catch you walking this road again.’

  He rode off, and left me in a state of complete panic. How could I never walk the street again? I couldn’t stay in my flat forever, I’d have to go out from time to time, to college, to get food. How could he ban me from the streets? It was hours before I got over it.

  This time there was no panic, just a sense of elation and control. It didn’t matter how the shopkeeper perceived me, or anyone else. I felt god-like and peaceful. We found the river and walked in silence, slowly, savouring the smells, the sounds. The wooded banks were in full leaf, the river gently flowing. It was a perfect idyll and it infused me with a sense of belonging that I had never felt before. I stopped at the water’s edge and scooped a handful of water into my mouth. It was cool and good. I looked around; Jane was standing there, looking at me, but Greg had disappeared. There was a fleeting moment when I panicked that I might panic, then a twig hit me on the head. I looked up; Greg was standing on a branch some twenty feet above me grinning, like an arboreal ape. I was puzzled as to how had he got there without me seeing him.

  ‘How did you get up there so fast?’

  ‘Fast? I’ve been up here for ages.’

  I looked at Jane. She smiled so sweetly, so calmly, that I felt at ease again. Clearly Greg and I were both wrong. We obviously had no sense of time. I found that both exciting and interesting. I wanted to find out more about time accelerating or slowing down. We moved through the woods along the river-bank, walking downstream, Greg and Jane hand in hand. I became aware of a sort of force-field around me that insects seemed unwilling to penetrate. I wondered whether that was always there or whether it was the peyote. I waited for the wilder effects I had read about, audio and visual hallucinations, cross-sensory stimuli – but none materialized. It remained a cerebral experience rather than a sensory one.

  I remember that really profound ideas about time filled my thoughts. Time, I realized, was something measured by motion. Whether it was the orbit of a planet or the swing of a pendulum, it was entirely determined by movement. Change the motion and you change time. But that’s it. All I can remember of the rest of the ideas is that they struck me as amazingly deep and intuitive. They were gone from my memory by the evening. That’s one of the problems with universal intuitions induced by psychedelics, they seem so meaningful at the time but even if you do remember them later they’re either banal or senseless.

  We came to a grassy clearing where Greg and Jane lay down in the sun. I lay beside them, Jane between Greg and me. I closed my eyes and watched an amazing display of lights and shapes. It was a while before it occurred to me that this is not the usual state of things. I became aware of the noise of a flock of a sheep somewhere across the river. The bleating was continuous, like a complaintful child. Every bleat hit a different note, and I began to laugh at the strange whinges and grumbles. I heard Greg laugh.

  ‘They sound like people trying to imitate sheep.’

  I thought that idea just wonderful. A field full of people pretending to be sheep. I sat up and rested on an elbow. Greg and Jane were lying on his fur jacket, both smiling with their eyes closed. Her black leather skirt had ridden up and with a shock I noticed the white triangle of her panties. I lay back again, felt the warmth of the sun on my body and let the light show begin again.

  After a while Greg got up. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ His decisiveness meant no dissent. We followed. We went back to the van and he set off, not saying where he was going, Jane and I not asking. He turned off the road by a gate to a field and announced we would have a picnic there. Food was something I hadn’t been thinking of, but apparently Jane had. Greg produced some badly made sandwiches and a thermos of tea, and we ate. Well Jane did, with enthusiasm. I found each morsel an interesting experience and savoured each one. I was convinced that a bite of sandwich was nourishment enough. I lingered over the soapy taste of the processed cheese, explored the texture of the bread with my tongue as it slowly became a sodden lump in my mouth. The tastes were astounding; rich, strong and fulfilling. Jane and Greg had developed the same halo I had seen around the van. An aura of golden glow about two inches wide surrounded them. I smiled and idly scratched my neck.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Greg, ‘you’re tearing your flesh.’

  I stared at my fingernails, looking for blood or torn skin. Jane burst out laughing, a high, orange coloured, tinkling laugh like bells.

  ‘What’s funny?’ I asked, rubbing my neck.

  ‘You both are. Neither of you have a clue about what’s going on.’ She laughed again, warm and orange. ‘Look, if neither of you two want this sandwich, I’ll have it.’

  ‘Have it. I’ve eaten loads.’

  ‘So have I.’

  I don’t remember the afternoon well; only that we explored more woods and built a fire on the banks of what I thought was the same river. Greg was sure that he could call trout to him, make them come to shore to be picked up the way the Imragen call dolphins into shore to club them to death. It didn’t work, but the fire was good. It was cool by late afternoon and Greg gave Jane his fur jacket. It was longer than her skirt, and from behind she looked as though it was all she was wearing.

  Greg asked me to drive back to the city and he and Jane got into the back of the van. I took the coast road, as I wanted to watch evening fall over the bay. I parked in a car park on top of a hill used by young lovers with cars. I watched as the last speck of sun disappeared below the horizon and slowly began to illuminate the clouds from below with a soft orange light. Greg passed me a joint and I inhaled gratefully, enjoying the view and an inner warmth that had been with me all day, but that only now was I beginning to notice. Obviously we had not eaten enough peyote to get the full psychotropic effect, we’d been gently stoned but never out of it. But it had been a good day, with enough peyote to at least have an idea of what a larger dose could do. It was very different from acid; it had none of the sharp-edged feeling you get when you’re tripping. With acid it’s like there’s a transparent crystal skin on reality that gives you the feeling of fragility. Rightly, I suppose. Reality is a fragile thing. I took another draw on the joint and turned in my seat to pass it back. Greg had made a bed out of the carpet remnants in the back and was lying beside Jane, kissing her, with his right hand between her legs. I turned back quickly and took another pull of the joint. Jesus. Right there behind me.

  ‘Hey, don’t bogart that joint, pass it back.’

  I turned around again and saw Greg slowly remove his hand from between Jane’s legs before he reached forward to take the joint.

  ‘Are you lo
nely up there, by yourself?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Just looking at the view.’

  ‘Why don’t you come back here and join us?’

  I turned around. Jane was smiling at me. Greg said ‘Come on, it’s too far to pass the jays.’ I looked at Jane, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. I climbed through the front seats and found a perch on a wheel arch.

  ‘Not a bad little bus, is it?’ said Greg.

  ‘Great.’ I said. ‘Good bus.’

  He busied himself rolling another jay. Jane looked at me, then sat back, drawing up her knees and locking her arms around them. From where I sat her legs looked smooth and long. I studied her face. She had brown eyes with long lashes, strong eyebrows, a neat nose and a small mouth with lips a little larger than normal. She had let her hair down, and it spread out behind her on the rolls of carpet. She caught me looking. I looked away.

  Greg offered me the joint to light. I had nothing to light it with; Jane leaned forward and handed me a lighter, her fingers lingering fleetingly on my hand. I passed her the jay. She took a long drag and said, ‘It’s getting cold.’ I started to move.

  ‘Do you want to go?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I don’t, it’s nice here. But we could do with a blanket.’

  Greg unrolled a rug and said ‘This’ll do.’ He arranged another roll as a bolster pillow and he and Jane lay back.

  ‘Come on, lie down over here next to us.’

  ‘I’m not cold.’

  ‘Come on. It’s cosy here.’

  I’m not now, nor was I then, particularly self-conscious. I was, however, very stoned and this was not an altogether straightforward situation. I suppose I assumed that this was normal for them, even though it was unusual for me. A little clumsily I lay down beside Jane. There’s not much room to lie three abreast in a VW van, and we were close together. Greg rolled another joint. I showed him the one we were still smoking. He nodded and kept on rolling. ‘Gotta get ahead of the posse,’ he said.

  The rug was heavy and warm. The occasional car headlights shone through the steamed-up back window. It had to be dark. Greg pushed his way between the front seats and put on the radio. He climbed back and we listened to Radio Luxembourg. He lit the joint he had just rolled, and we had two going between us. Jane closed her eyes. There was a little light coming into the van from a streetlight, casting its orange glow like a sunset. He leant on his left elbow and looked down at Jane. Gently he put the joint to her lips. She smiled and inhaled, her eyes still shut.

  ‘She’s got lovely titties. Haven’t you, my little chick?’

  ‘Greg!’

  ‘She has, you know.’

  Slowly he pulled her tank-top up, looking at me. I looked at Jane who said nothing, kept her eyes closed and kept smiling. I watched as Greg very slowly uncovered one breast, then the other. Her nipples cast long shadows. Greg was right; they were beautiful. He began to play with her right breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple gently with his fingers. He bent down and kissed the nipple, nuzzled it, sucked it. With a jolt I felt Jane reach for my hand. She found my left one and placed it on her left breast. My head was swimming. I felt her firm nipple, kissed it, sucked it. Suddenly Jane was convulsed with laughter.

  ‘Must be what it feels like to breast-feed twins.’

  It was a wonderful moment. We were no longer furtive, no longer unsure. This felt good, and there was no reason to be ashamed. It was fun, pure joy, giving and getting pleasure with no rules. Greg sat up, stripped off his shirt and slid off his jeans and underpants. His cock popped out as he slid them off, and he laughed. ‘Ready for action.’ I lost no time in stripping off and got back under the rug. Jane slipped off her skirt and panties without getting up. She kept her eyes closed as Greg eased her tank-top over her head and threw it at the roof of the van with a whoop. He was kissing her, while moving himself on top of her. Soon the van was rocking and creaking while I watched them fuck, right there in front of me. Jane’s hand reached out and stroked my chest. Gradually her hand moved to my stomach, stroking my skin, her nails scratching lightly. I couldn’t wait; I took her hand and put it on my cock. She didn’t object, she began squeezing and pulling it in time with Greg’s pounding. He came noisily.

  ‘God, that was good. Really good.’ He rolled off her and lay back. ‘Fucking brilliant.’

  Jane rolled toward me, giving me a nipple to suck on. I tried to put my hand between her legs, but she pulled away. ‘No, not that,’ she said quietly, ‘just relax.’ I could see Greg looking over her shoulder as she gave me a hand-job. When I came I watched in amazement as it squirted at least a foot into the air – the most explosive orgasm I’d ever had.

  We just lay there after that, unselfconsciously, enjoying the flush. It was hot in the van now and the rug was thrown off. I could see all of Jane’s body; her smooth belly, her long thighs with skin as soft as satin. It was good, just lying there, still feeling her breasts from time to time as though to make sure the right to do so was still mine.

  We didn’t go home that night. Didn’t want the spell to be broken. Before we went to sleep Jane reached out and took a cock in each hand.

  ‘Look, Mum, one in each hand!’

  That’s how we fell asleep. Me and my friend Greg, joined together by the arms of a woman.

  This wasn’t what I’d expected from the mushroom.man, but it was at least personal. Also it confirmed, assuming this was biographically accurate, that the writer was a long-term user of psychotropic drugs, which made what he had to say of interest to my research. At least, that’s how I reasoned it to myself But there was something more to it than that. This correspondence was opening up vistas into worlds that I knew little of, worlds of which I had had no previous experience. Each time the mushroom.man sent me one of his longer pieces of prose I felt like a peeping Tom; I felt a vicarious frisson as I read them. All my life I had been brought up to believe in Methodist virtues, in cleanliness and godliness. In some ways when I read his writings I felt as I’d done the first time I’d been lent a well-fingered copy of Playboy at school. It wasn’t just the three-colour exposed flesh that was so titillating, it was the added bonus of secretly breaking taboos.

  I was also aware that perhaps I was discovering in myself a nostalgie de la boue – that strange yearning for the smutty, the dirty and the profane. I kept my printouts in a locked drawer, they were my secret, my clandestine stimulant. Perhaps I thought that the distance, the remoteness from the morally reprehensible, would make me safe from contamination. I could savour it, but be sufficiently removed that it wouldn’t touch me. Like a man who thinks he can research the vice trade and keep his virginity.

  Lepiota procera. The Parasol.

  Large mushroom. Cap to 10 inches.

  Whitish with darker shaggy scales.

  In pastures. Summer to autumn. Common.

  Edible and good.

  four

  Increasingly I wondered where the mushroom.man lived. Outside of a city, clearly, but where? I wasn’t even sure if he lived in the same country as me. A web site is a web site; it can have no geographical pointers. It can be anywhere.

  I was aware that my behaviour was becoming obsessive. I felt like a pest, I kept e-mailing him, asking questions, looking for more to read, trying to find out more about him. He became quicker with replies, but there was always a sense of holding back. The long pieces that he’d sent me were somehow at odds with the shorter messages. I just felt that the pieces were honest and open, but that the messages that accompanied them were reserved – almost guarded. It was a curious combination, as though he could only open out in his impersonal prose.

  There was an apparent chronology in what I’d got so far, as if he was telling his life’s story. I clipped them together and reread them again, trying to get a feel for who had written it. It did occur to me that this could well have been a pointless exercise. Just because it read like an autobiography didn’t mean that it was. It could have been pure fiction from start to finish, but deep down I did
n’t really believe that that was the case.

  Besides, I was fascinated by communicating with someone who had no qualms about experimenting chemically on his own brain. Certainly I had never even considered that as a possibility; it scared me. My interest was purely intellectual – I had seen too many junkies in rehab.

  Over the months I collected everything he’d sent me. But still the messages that accompanied his writings were impersonal, almost stand-offish. Never the less I was enjoying the exchanges – I felt that somehow he was beginning to trust me with his very personal feelings. It was a strange sensation, meeting someone yet not meeting them. Establishing trust with nothing more than a name on a network. No background, no body language; nothing to go on other than the written word. I never showed the mushroom.man’s writings to anyone then, I wanted to think of them as my research. But I started thinking about putting it together around that time, putting a bit of shape onto it all. I only wanted to maybe introduce it, and then let him tell his own story. Maybe I was naive, maybe this was post-hoc rationalization, but it gave me a reason for continuing the correspondence while keeping my precious sense of propriety intact.

  I sat down on a warm June day and sent the mushroom.man yet another e-mail.

  Attn. mushroom.man.

  Subject: psychedelics.

  8 June.

  Your last piece of 28th May made interesting reading. You touched on the psychedelic experience but only tangentially. As you know psychotropic fungi are not my main area of interest, but I’m curious. Can you tell me more about the experience?

  Two days later I had a brief reply.

  Attn. mushroom.seeker.

  Subject: FAQ.

  10 June.

  The questions that you ask can’t be addressed directly. It’s not that I can’t explain, I can. The problem is that you won’t understand. You ask me to explain in words what is essentially a non-verbal experience – it can’t be done. You need some basic vocabulary first or nothing makes any sense. You can read about it, but it’s no substitute for experience. Talking about transcendence is a bit like dancing about architecture. That said, this might answer some of your questions: