The closest we got to the proverbial garden was a sports arena in North Jersey where we attended outdoor concerts, where Carolyn Mahoney and I spent my 15th birthday at a Grateful Dead concert. We arrived at two p.m. for a show that wouldn’t start until dark, spread out our blankets as close to the stage as possible, bought a couple of hits of acid from a wandering vendor — Purple microdot, blotter, windowpane! Strawberry fields, orange barrel, orange sunshine! Get your chemicals here, get your Thai sticks, get your orr-ganic mescaline! — and giggled and smoked cigarettes and talked to strangers all afternoon, so high that a simple trip to the bathroom was a quest of epic proportions.

Finally it got dark and the Dead came out and played, which was orgasmic and thrilling and endless. Everyone mouthed the words and played air guitar. When we were passed a pair of binoculars from a neighboring blanket, we squinted anxiously at Bob Weir (so cute!), Jerry Garcia (the avatar), Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, Keith and Donna Godchaux (is she the one “Sugar Magnolia” was written about? Or “Scarlet Begonias”? We had analyzed the song lyrics as if they were the Talmud. We wanted to know everything.) Tiny panes of brilliant color swirled through air; moving objects left dense trails behind them, as if they had been photographed with a very long exposure. Carolyn, I’m peaking, are you? It was already the best Dead concert I had ever seen, and I had been to 11 of them. Then they played my song, “Eyes of the World.” Oh my God. Oh my God. I almost fainted. It was a half-hour version of a three-minute song and right in the middle of it I swear Jerry Garcia said Happy Birthday. Carolyn heard it too.

Somehow we ended up with no ride home, so after the show we went out to the parking lot and started asking people which way they were headed. We got a ride from some guys from Yonkers who went two hours out of their way to take us down to Asbury Park. Carolyn puked out the window and it got plastered all along the side of their car. Then we both decided we had forgotten what we looked like and begged them to pull over somewhere so we could go in a ladies room and look in the mirror. They actually did it. When we got home, they asked us for some water to get the puke off the car. It hosed off easily. Then they drove away.

*

We usually got acid from Laurie Leonardo, a burly girl who drove to New York City in her big white station wagon and bought baggies full of it in Central Park. Her father was a cop. We thought she was the coolest thing on earth. After all the little tablets were sold, she would let us lick out the orange or purple powder in the bottom of the bag. One time we got her to come to a dance at our high school. We sat out in the parking lot the whole time, licking baggies.

In fact, the majority of the drug dealers in our area seemed to be offspring of public servants. One Thanksgiving morning, Nancy and I arrived home after being out all night tripping at the house of the mayor of a neighboring town, whose son had a nice little business selling acid and angel dust. When we got home, my mother was sitting at the table having coffee. For some reason, she took our all-night absence quite calmly, and we sat around filling her in on details of the decor at the mayoral residence. Then I, who could not bear to spare my parents from a single sordid detail of our teenage lives, announced that we were tripping. What? asked my mother. LSD, Mom, we took LSD and now we’re tripping. But see, everything’s fine! We don’t think we’re Jesus Christ, we’re not going to jump out of a 10th-story window!

I just wanted her to understand that it was okay, that drugs were great, that all those horror stories she was hearing were a bunch of propaganda. Yes, I wanted to be a wild teenage rebel, but I wanted to do it with my parents’ blessing.

My mother sighed and got up to pour herself a second cup of coffee. Go on, you two, she said. Try to get some sleep before your grandmother gets here....."

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Marion Winik writes “Bohemian Rhapsody,” a column about life, love, and the pursuit of self-awareness. Check out her heartbreakingly honest and funny essays twice a month on Baltimore Fishbowl."

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