I arrived in my bedroom. It was too small, hot and airless. I lifted my wallet and recognized it. There were six twenties inside, and some cards with my name on them. I went into the bathroom and stared at the face in the bright mirror. My pupils were enormous. I was wearing an orange Carnaby Street tie someone had given me that afternoon. I was afraid to urinate. I had the notion that I was composed of water and if I started I would not stop until I disappeared. I realized I needed to go to Montreal immediately, so I stuck my toothbrush in my pocket. Now I was packed. I said goodbye to only my brother, phoned a taxi, and was suddenly standing in our small local airport where a crisp woman informed me all flights to Expo '67 had been booked weeks ago. I was mesmerized by an animated group of Trinidadians playing steel drums in the foyer. They caught my despair in a dancing net which spun me towards another airline counter. It was nearly midnight and no one was there, but I leaned on a service buzzer with my elbow until an angry official burst through the door, demanding that I stop. I had his attention and managed to encourage him to plot an optional route. A shuttle flight to La Guardia, a bus to JFK airport, and when the sun came up I was floating in the clouds above Montreal. It all seemed like only moments had elapsed, and when I came down from the acid trip, I was standing on a Montreal street corner, wearing an orange tie, carrying a toothbrush in one pocket, spare change in the other. A short man with devilish eyes and a red goatee was talking to me in French. I don't know why he picked me, nor how I understood enough to follow him home to meet his wife (whom he said could speak some English) but he did and I did. Recently immigrated from France, they had rented a run-down heritage house on Rue St. Denis, and were looking for boarders to share the rent. They showed me a high-ceilinged room with a one-legged washstand and a window which looked out onto a tangle of cries-crossed washlines in the trashy adjacent courtyards. They gave me a mat and a blanket, and I slept for ten hours. That night we ate crusty bread dipped in olive oil and covered with sardines and fete cheese. I gave them all the money I had left and promised I'd pay rent as soon as I landed a job at Expo. There were no jobs
available at Expo; they'd been farmed out long ago, besides
I didn't speak a word of French. I had no money to spend at
Expo and went there only twice all summer. I came down hard
from the LSD into the gradual awareness of the tear I'd rent
into the family fabric, and the sudden nothingness into
which I'd flung myself . That summer I learned to lean heavy
on the bottle.
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