“Perhaps I can help clear up the confusion,” said Guru-Vy. “Each of us took a descriptive name, based on one of our significant characteristics, in order to differentiate our Field Trip selves from the identities we possess in the outside world, and ‘I Cannot Tell A Lie’ is not only the designation given to Molly but one of her most endearing qualities.”
“Alright, let’s test it out, then, why don’t we,” said Boots. “I Cannot Tell A Lie, darlin’, why did you give Sparks a major hallucinogen that in a very short time is likely to render him incapable not only of intelligible speech but also make it nigh impossible for him to play his guitar, much less remember how our songs go?”
“He asked me for some,” said Molly.
“To paraphrase the Bible, ‘the truth shall make you free, but not necessarily less pissed off,’” said Guru-Vy.
“Amen to that, brother,” said Lips, who rose from the ground where he had been sitting, brandished a small sugar cube, and swallowed it. “To paraphrase some ancient Roman dude, ‘when in the Haight, do as the Haitians do.’”
“Right on!,” said Sparks.
“To paraphrase Charlie Brown, ‘aaaaggh!,’” said Boots. “Not you, too! I thought you would have more sense!”
“I appreciate that, partner, but did you really?,” said Lips.
“On second thought, I guess not,” said Boots. “But how are we going to play now?”
“Do not judge the experience too hastily,” said Guru-Vy. “Especially if you have not tried it, which I gather from your contrary position to be the case. While it is true that I would not recommend it for those unfortunates who toil daily in the fields of capitalistic enterprise, I think you’ll find that it actually enhances, rather than distorts, your state of mind.”
“Especially when the trees start talking to you,” said one of the many Trippers gathered around Guru-Vy who had been monitoring the conversation. “Did you know that leaves were actually the souls of dead people?”
“My kingdom for a stomach pump,” said Boots. “I really think we should reconsider this whole concert thing.”
“Why?,” asked Smarts, as he rejoined the group and the conversation.
“Because your illustrious bandmates have chosen to impair their already somewhat questionable sensibilities through the ingestion of stimulants,” said Boots.
“Maybe they should have just dropped some acid, like I just did,” said Smarts.
“I give up,” said Boots.
“Did someone ask you a question?,” said Smarts.
“Here’s an idea, Boots,” said Lips. “Since the rest of us have now done the deed, why don’t you join us, and instead of dropping acid you can pretend that you’re biting the bullet or swallowing your pride?”
“How about licking my wounds?,” said Boots.
“Whatever works,” said Lips.
“Alright. I’ll make a deal with you guys,” said Boots. “I’ll take some if you promise that you’ll stop me if I start to do something really stupid or embarrassing.”
“Taking into account the fact that you’re asking this of three people who are on the verge of seeing things that aren’t there, it’s a deal,” said Lips.
“Okay. Now what,” said Boots, looking around for the supplier of his dose.
“Here you are,” said Guru-Vy, handing him a sugar cube similar to the one Lips had taken moments earlier. “Just let this slowly dissolve in your mouth.”
“For what I am about to receive, let me not be truly regretful,” said Boots, as he put the sugar cube on his tongue. “How long does it take before you feel something?”
“It is different for every person,” said Guru-Vy. “Do not fight it, and it will simply happen.”
“What is it about the way you talk that makes it sound like you’re reading something?,” asked Lips.
“I do not use contractions,” said Guru-Vy.
“What?,” said Lips.
“I have banned apostrophes from my life,” said Guru-Vy.
“Is this an acid thing, or are you just weird for a living?,” asked Lips.
“It is an exercise in mental discipline,” said Guru-Vy. “It helps me to think more clearly about what I am saying, and to help ensure that my meaning is not misconstrued.”
“How long has this been going on?,” asked Boots, who was in fact less interested in the answer to this question than he was in the highly unlikely but nevertheless increasingly persistent sensation that the band’s van was actually trying to say something very important to him about excessive mileage and the importance of proper wheel alignment.
“One of the last papers I wrote during my brief stay at Berkeley,” Guru-Vy explained, “on the manifestation of mother/son love in Shakespeare’s tragedies, which, incidentally, I entitled ‘Oedipus Text,’ was praised for its content but chided for its overuse of contractions. While at first I was baffled and enraged by this criticism, after some thought I began to realize that perhaps the old geezer had been right, and I instituted my present way of speaking. The true irony of the situation is that right before I left school I ran into him at a lecture, and asked him to explain exactly what he meant. It turns out that he had actually written ‘contradictions,’ not ‘contractions,’ but at that point I had made my decision and it was too late to go back.”
“Good penmanship is important in so many ways,” said Smarts, who lost his balance momentarily imagining that he was in the company of well-dressed ballpoints in the middle of the ocean.
“Write on!,” said Sparks again, although of course the playful spelling was lost on all concerned, not having access to the page in question.
“Ink-credible!,” said Lips.
“I did change your oil!,” said Boots.
“Are we getting music today, or what?,” asked Molly.
“Your wish is my command,” said Sparks, who strapped on his guitar and began strumming the opening chords to Read My Mind.
“Wait for me!,” yelled Smarts, running to his kit and picking up the sturdy beat on his hi-hat, bass drum and snare.
“I’m in!,” shouted Lips as he too grasped a guitar, adding solid bottom notes to the tuneful mix.
“Drive yourself, then, and see how far you get,” said Boots. “Now leave me alone, I’m going to play some music.”
Boots picked up his guitar, took up his place at the front of the band and began to sing, and Guru-Vy and the Field Trippers gathered around to listen to the Echoes play. Some danced, some stood in place and swayed to the rhythms, some lay on the grass, almost all of them sang along, and as Boots gazed out at the crowd and did what he did best, he slowly began to realize that he was sincerely enjoying himself.
It wasn’t simply the significant buzz he always got from being surrounded by his best friends, singing the words and playing the chords he himself had borne into the world, but instead a sense that he was absolutely where he was supposed to be at that very moment, playing for these very people.
Yes, they were weird, and no, he didn’t give much credence to this summoning balderdash, and, yes, now the LSD was making him wonder if it was really possible that in the back of the crowd he saw Paul McCartney fixing a hole, John Lennon flying a kite, George Harrison eating Indian food and Ringo Starr cutting someone’s hair, but damn if standing there making music didn’t make him feel as good as he’d felt in a long while.
The sum was far greater than its parts, and since Boots had never been very good at math, he simply accepted the equation at face value. Sure, some of it was the drugs, but some of it was the time, and place, and people; it was impossible to separate out, just as you couldn’t isolate which ingredient in your favorite food caused it to be tops on your nourishment hit parade. There was a lot going on to make any one particular thing happen, and you had to take it all in for any of it to make any sense at all.
All Boots knew was that he felt amazingly “right,” and while he went on to play many bigger, more significant and more renowned concerts, and eventually realized that it was a lot easier to play the right notes and sing the right words in full possession of one’s principal faculties (if not necessarily more fun), he would always consider the Field Trip performance to
be one of his life’s shining moments.
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