Wednesday, January 9, 2008

"Do you want a shotgun," Valerie asked?

...'I don't know,' I answered, '...doesn't sound too cool, what is it?'

'I'll show you.'

As I drove she did something with the joint which made it disappear in her mouth then somehow managed to kiss me and expel into my mouth a huge toke of reefer madness which overwhelmed and dazed me; maybe it was the kiss I don't know but it all hung together pretty well as we cruised along East Colfax in Denver, the original 'Desolation Row', until we turned down High St. & suddenly there looms before us a jack-booted, bullet-headed, jodphur wearin', pistol-packin', bullet-proof-vested Denver motorcycle cop, arms akimbo, smiling, helmeted, shades, six feet five of him standing alongside his FLH, red & blues flashing, fire trucks in the distance...

We're fucked!

He approaches the big station wagon I've not quite stolen but shouldn't really be in Denver in, a car full of smoke, dope and burned-out hippy freaks, some of whom are approaching LSD meltdown (not here at all) & in a minute from now they'll be shipping us off to the penitentiary at Canyon City...we've had it...

But wait! He walks up to the car and says politely, 'Roll the window down please,' and by accident I catch the wing window which is good enough for him (and which saved him from having to breathe in a huge cumulonimbus of reefer smoke) and said, 'There's a fire. You'll have to turn around and go the other way,' which we were only too happy to do, zipping away in giddy high back to Cheesman Park, there to sit and contemplate IT.

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