Sam threatened suicide our first day together and yet I was so struck I let it slide.
I was lying in the park attempting to get a handle on Saul Bellow’s latest opus when a blonde bob in short shorts and snow white top sat down and introduced herself.
Her name was Sam, she was on acid, she was a lit major, hated Cooke but loved early Joplin and she was on acid. She picked up ‘The Adventures of Augie March’ and said it contained the only love making scene that truly moved her. Her eyes teared as she said this, lay her backpack down, used it as pillow, offered me a tab and who was I to deny.
I admitted the prose of Bellow left me bewildered at best as I lay on her stomach, a capital L for observant passers-by. Sam waved her fingers above her eyes and declared that “the soul conceives what the soul desires, perhaps you are simply not ready for Bellow’s truths.”
“No matter though,” She continued, “I am yet to make it through The Great Gatsby and it’s a course requirement. There’s little we can do, or should attempt for that matter.” She spoke with just the hint of a grin, a grin I would come to love and despise in equal measure.
I told her she reminded me of the first boy I ever had a crush on and she looked decidedly surprised. “You don’t strike me as the sexually experimental.”
I replied in a way I later regretted as far too fey, “I’m attracted to the individual rather than the gender.”
She smiled … “A bisexual gentleman on this campus … you may qualify as endangered at best,” a beat, “but have no fear, I shall keep it strictly between us.”
I turned my head to face her and for the first time drew in her simple beauty, the freckles that brushed the bridge of her nose, the pale blue eyes, the pure white teeth of a Southern Belle.
I could feel the acid kicking in and felt brave enough to offer, “We should go to my dorm.”
“No … we should go to my dorm, there’s not a moment to lose.” And so we walked to her dorm as she brushed my hand with hers.
By the time she unlocked her door my arm was around her waist, the door opened to reveal a multi-color mural in mid completion. “I like to paint,” is all she ever offered on the subject.
Sam walked to a record player and placed Sgt Peppers on the turntable. As George Harrison’s lead guitar turned to strain Sam took off her top and lay on her bed in bra and shorts. “I’d take off my shorts but I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” she said with that grin most devastating.
She patted the bed but first I wanted to take in the surroundings. A hint of incense formerly burned tempted the nostrils, the floor was covered in clothes and books, a bottle of Wild Turkey sat on the dresser next to a lonesome glass.
I ran my hands through my hair and joined Sam on her bed. She immediately lay her head on my chest and her hand on my stomach. “You’re so lean,” she commented, without hint of whether this was compliment or complaint.
“Have you ever masturbated on acid?” She asked.
I shook my head.
“It’s truly transcendent, the closest one can come to having sex with the Gods.” And then she was silent through the two following Pepper numbers.
I needed to use the bathroom but was reluctant to leave. I figured however the longer I waited the longer it would be till I return and so left the room with receipt of a blown kiss fresh on my cheek.
I returned to find her seated on a ledge, windows wide open, swaying to and fro in a manner most disconcerting.
I rushed and grabbed her by the waist.
“Don’t you feel at times you’ve reached emotion’s pinnacle and everything forever after will be simple disappointment?” She whispered.
And that was all we ever spoke of that.
Image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lysergic.JPG – Psychonaught, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons – Different tabs of acid, one in the centre a red one with an evil smiling face and the others various squares of colour.
literally stories 
Michael
It’s not a cliche: smart, sensitive people are more likely to kill themselves than hard-hearted dummies are. Just another one of the legion of things in life that should be the other way around.
Excellent character piece; it doesn’t try to explain; just relates and connects.
Leila
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Leila
Thanks once again for such a considered response to my work. I agree – it is the twisted who tend to suffer…
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Leila
Thank you for another considered reading of my work. You are right, it is often the twisted who suffer most….
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Michael
As Leila pointed out in different form, thinkers and artist types often have a dark shadow side following them everywhere, known by the scientific community as various forms of mood disorder, which is ready to pounce on them at any time, usually when they least expect it. The “regular folks” roaming around the world, who are 99 out of 100, have a lot of trouble understanding this, even after they know someone with the condition. From Hemingway to Virginia Woolf to Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath, the list is long of great artists who just couldn’t take it any more. Substance Use Disorder often goes hand in hand with these folks as well, making everything that much more turbulent and questionable. You created a truly well-made flash fiction which depicts these issues with grace, humor, and gusto. I appreciated the fast-paced nature of this story which came out because of the lean language use, along with the well-placed details, the abrupt ending, and the realistic dialogue. Also, Saul Bellow and the Beatles would not be brought together by too many writers, but they actually belong together much better than they themselves might have understood, or maybe they did and do understand. Thanks for this vibrant, well-focused tale.
Dale
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Dale
You hit the nail on the head, as HST wrote, “Buy the ticket, take the ride…” The ticket is costly but all benefit from the travails of those brave enough to take the ride.
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Michael
Early on in your story, a declarative sentence was dissected by the words “a beat” having nothing to do with the narrative. What!? So like a memory collage of impressions or jazz riffs that last — as they were, not what they might mean or could have been. Like Joe Brainard’s “I Remember” notes to himself.
I loved it. I also learned something about how to make a story last a lifetime.
Gerry
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Gerry
‘As they were, not what they might or could have been.’
That made my day….
Selah,
Michael Tyler
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I appreciate how the characters are developed largely through conversation. Sam’s eccentricity comes across as does her vulnerability and dark side. She’s an intriguing character. I also enjoyed the references to Sgt. Pepper, Gatsby and Bellow. I’ve been meaning to read Angie March my whole life.
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David
Glad that Sam’s dark side comes through, I wanted to give that impression without pressing on it too hard…
Augie March is a stunning work, if you lived in Auckland, New Zealand I’d gladly lend you my copy.
Selah,
Michael Tyler
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Hi Michael,
I always harp on about comments being catalysts and one thing came to me in a blur of not so clear clarity.
Time lines can be confusing to the reader if they have no or maybe too much experience!!
But what I realised is that it is very difficult for us to now write a sense of time as a lot of past phrasing and ideas are so shunned. You handled this very well. Leila explained it by saying that you simply didn’t try to explain, just related and let the connections speak for themselves.
I think you left us to think, wonder and contemplate.
Excellent.
Hugh
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Hugh,
Your comment made my fucken day.
Michael
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This is wistful and beautiful in all the right ways – a perfect little moment of young life from what feels like a very 1960s story to me (not just the Sgt. Peppers bit). I love the characters and their foray in experimenting with each other and other available substances.
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Wistful is what I was hoping for…. Thank you.
Michael
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