To Morrow Tomorrow by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

At 6:31 PM on Tuesday, March 8, 1983, my mom knocked on my east Charlotte bedroom door to tell me that I had a phone call. It was from my hip neighborhood friend Frank.

I walked down the long hall, through the den, into the kitchen to find the yellow handset resting astride the cradle clasps. I grabbed it.

“Hello, this is Mike.”

“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow, man?” Frank asked. Oh, dear, I wonder what he has in mind.

“Nothing special, but I’m off from UNCC (University of North Carolina at Charlotte) for spring break this week. Why, what’s up?” He has some type of mischief in store. I can already sense it.

“Want to go to Morrow tomorrow?” To Morrow tomorrow. Hmmm, I should use that little phrase in a piece of writing someday.

“You mean Morrow Mountain State Park?”

“Yes, sir-ree. Are you up for a magical hike?” Magical? Oh my … me thinks I know where this is going.

“A magical hike? Frank, I don’t have the time or the mind for another 14-hour acid trip.”

“No, it’s not LSD. [Lysergic acid diethylamide] And, it’s not mescaline, DMT or psilocybin, either.” Ok, then, what could it be? I bet he got some of those emetic seeds.

“Morning glory seeds again? Do you really want to have another puke-a-thon?”

“No, it’s not morning glory seeds. I couldn’t stomach those nasty things again.” Thank God.

“Is it Marezines? That’s just too much unreality for me, Frank. I don’t want to be picked up by my dad again under the Eastway Drive overpass.”

“Nope, you’re wrong again.” What in the world is it?

“Well, I give up, Frank. You’ve stumped me.” It’s probably something toxic. Amanita muscaria mushrooms, I bet. A slow agonizing trip to La Ville de la Mort [the City of Death] via the white-gilled destroying angels.

“I got this extra-spatial, psychoactive, super-smooth, elixir-concoction from that George guy, the weird chemist dude I met last week. He said that you can get glimpses of the future after drinking this stuff. It’s a real time-shifter. You can move into tomorrow.” What did he just say?

“Move into tomorrow? Did I hear you correctly?”

“Yeah, and, get this … it’s totally legal!” Oh, great … another nasty legal high.

“Ok, what are the side-effects? How long does it last? How long does it take to recover some semblance of sanity? Do I end up repeating the same word over and over for thirty-seven weeks?”

“Try thirty-seven years.”

“Very funny. Maybe comedy is your calling, Frank.”

“Just relax, dude; there are no bad side-effects. And it only lasts about four hours. Five, tops. C’mon, a cool walk in the woods. It will be an adventure. A high adventure.” Probably too high.

“I don’t doubt that it will be an adventure, Frank. I’m just kind of concerned about where I am when the adventure ends.”

“Oh, don’t worry; you won’t end up on westbound East Independence Boulevard with your right thumb out.”

“Then, maybe my left one?”

“Oh, c’mon; don’t be a wimpleburger. I bought a two-liter bottle with you in mind.” Two liters? Wow! I sure hope that it’s a weak, ultra-diluted concentration.

“Two liters! So, you bought a lifetime supply. You garage-qualified! You’re already moving up the pyramid, Frank.”

“Moving up the pyramid? What in the hell are you talking about? Just settle down. It has a Gatorade-like base. It’s a perfect drink for a hike. It replenishes the body as it refinishes the mind. Those were George’s exact words.” Refinishes the mind? I can’t believe that I heard that. It’s so hysterical. And yet, Frank seems to have bought it hook, line and sinker.

“Wow. So, he’s already got a catchy jingle for his meta-temporal beverage. He must have a day job in advertising.”

“Meta-temporal? Ok, so I guess that means I can count you in, meta-tampon?” Meta-tampon?

“Did you just call me a tampon?”

“No, something beyond a stopper.” Beyond a stopper?

“I’m not going to be a stopper.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning. Be ready to roll when I toot my horn twice. If I toot my horn once, just go back to sleep. If I toot my horn thrice, start running out the back.” He’s high right now.

“Ok, whatever, I’ll play; I’m in. But if we end up in the city jail in Albemarle or in a Stanly County hospital, it was all your idea, all your fault, and I knew nothing about the drink’s ingredients. Basically, you will have poisoned me. That’s what I will tell them. I swear; I’ll pin it all on you.” I chuckled.

“Calm the frick down. Trust me; it’s not poison. And, sure, I’ll take the rap if you stumble off a lakeside cliff and drown. Well, second thought, probably not.” He let out a laugh.

I thought about what I might be signing up for, for about three seconds. “Ok, see you tomorrow morning.”

“Over, under and all about.” <click>

I hung up the phone. What in the world am I in for tomorrow? Jeez, I hope it’s not something immediately dangerous to life and health, or something that causes dementia ten or twenty years after ingestion. Well, I am pretty bored just sitting around here. Weather-wise, it looks perfect for a hike tomorrow. Oh, why not. I’m young. You are supposed to do these kinds of things when you are a young man. It will make for quite a story when I’m old … if I ever reach ‘old.’

<>

<beep-beep> Frank arrived at 8:02 AM, signaled by a rapid double-toot of his loud horn. So, the clipper ship is now at the dock.

I gathered my knapsack and left the house for his red F-100 pickup truck, which was parked along the front-yard curb, just past the ivy-covered black mailbox. It was a cool 48°F with patchy fog, but it was expected to warm up to the lower 70s. I opened the passenger-side cab door and jumped in. It reeked of stale smoke.

“Did you eat your Wheaties?” Frank asked with a wry grin. He already had his mirror shades on. His shower-wet dark brown hair was parted in the middle. His expression seemed to say, ‘Let’s get the show on the road, dude; time’s a-wasting.’ Well, I guess I’m onboard now for this ‘let’s find tomorrow’ odyssey.

“No, I actually didn’t eat anything.”

“Well, I got a breakfast bowl just for you, cosmonaut.” Oh, boy; here we go … wake-n-bake.

Frank passed his preloaded silver metal pipe to me. I grabbed it and took a puff as we drove off. The smoke sure was silky smooth. This is some good shite!

“Wow, what is this stuff, Frank?”

“Blonde Lebanese hash. It’s the premium hors d’oeuvre. Inhale all the smoke. Hold it in; let it melt into your lungs and seep into your mind. This stuff is way too expensive to waste.” I bet it is.

A nice THC buzzeroni soon took hold. Frank inserted a Peter Gabriel cassette tape into the horizontal dashboard slot. The music sounded like it was from a strange play in a castle theater.

We didn’t say much as we left the Charlotte city limits. The small townships and towns to the east began to pass by one after another: Allen, Midland, Locust, Red Cross, Frog Pond, Endy.

Our minds focused on the music. … No one will tell what this is all about / But I will find out / I will find out / I will find out …

Thirty-nine minutes after leaving my parents’ house, we were rolling past the western town limits of Albemarle. We continued east on NC 24/27, passing south of the downtown area. At the intersection with NC 740, Frank pulled his truck into a convenience store for some gasoline, snacks and drinks. A Highway Patrol car caught my eye as it sped past. Well, let’s not get paranoid … at least not yet.

Loaded up with mission-critical supplies, we continued on our journey. Soon we passed the wooden Morrow Mountain State Park sign. We had made it to the park safely. Ah, we’re already here. We’re inside our sylvan sanctuary. How will this day go? How will it play out?

Frank veered left at the triangle intersection. We descended towards Lake Tillery. But then he suddenly turned left at the road that went to the swimming pool. What in the world is he thinking? It’s way too chilly for a swim.

“I think it’s a wee too cold to be in that pool, Frank. Hell, it’s not even open.” I wonder what his plan is.

Frank kept driving past the pool’s stone bathhouse, while turning his head towards me. “Listen, I know it’s not open. And that is why this will make a perfect point A.” Point A?

He drove all the way to the far end of the vacant parking lot, stopped and cut the engine off. What does he have in mind?

My brain was already in tape-delay mode. “Ok, and where is point B?” I asked like a TV crime show detective.

“That is what we are now going to find out,” Frank said while giving me a gigantic, hugely mischievous grin as he pulled a plastic, two-liter bottle from behind his seat. So, that’s it. The hemlock extract. I wonder if it is the Socrates brand.

The liquid inside was a translucent red color. It looked like weak cherry soda. What in the world did that George dude mix in this bottle? Will it be the last thing we ever drink? Will we end up permanently deranged? Chemically induced psychosis? Another pair of acid casualties?

“Let me guess … that’s what we’re going to drink,” I coyly ventured.

“You know, you’re pretty smart for a goofy, red-haired guy.”

I laughed and watched Frank uncap the clear vessel of the mysterious strawberry-colored solution. He slugged down a few ounces of the strange libation. Then he passed it to me.

“Don’t I get a cup? I don’t know where your mouth has been.” I tried to look serious.

“Don’t be a wuss. Just drink up.” This is how people die.

“What’s the recommended dose? One ounce? Two?”

“More, much more,” Frank said and then began a proclamation. “To get where we need to go, you need to drink more. When in doubt, just drink more. More and more.” More insanity.

“If I didn’t know you, I’d say that you were a raving alcoholic.”

“The amount of alcohol in this drink is minimal, dude; we won’t be getting drunk. You know that I’m not into alcohol. Trust me; you won’t be staggering about. Your motor skills will stay sharp; your mind will be ultra-keen, just like a polished chrome ball bearing rolling down the edge of a razor-sharp cutlass sword.” Boy, he’s reading straight from George’s hype card.

Over the next thirteen minutes, we consumed about half of the bottle. Then we got out of the truck. I felt ok, but I sensed a psychic tsunami was fast approaching. My premonition would prove to be most prescient.

For some odd reason, Frank placed the bottle right in the middle of the truck’s hood. The morning sun’s rays refracted through the fluid. The designs projected onto the red surface seemed alive. Magical hydra-like creatures were dancing about. This is going to be one helluva day; I can already tell. Prepare for sensory overload, me lad.

“Hey, Frank, take a look at this. Is it doing anything for you?”

“Oh, yeah; it’s doing plenty. Listen, we better get in the woods and on a trail quickly. Very quickly.”

“Why?” I asked, feeling dumfounded and momentarily oblivious to the newly emerging state of mind.

“Because we may soon have trouble communicating verbally with anyone, especially the park ranger.” The park ranger? Why did he have to name him in particular? Sheez, thanks for the initial paranoid rush.

“Ok, good idea. Where does the trail start?”

“Not sure.” He’s not sure?! He doesn’t know?

“What?!”

“Let’s just go down this slope until we hit a creek. Then we’ll walk up the creek until it dries up.” What did he just say?!

“You’ve already lost your mind! Walk up the creek until it dries up? Did you hear what you just said?” His bean is already thoroughly juiced. Full saturation has now occurred.

“Yes, my auditory monitor is working; I heard what I just said. You need to relax. You’re not going to get dehydrated and eaten by a bear today. Well, maybe one of two scenarios.”

I laughed at his joke. “Very funny, sport. You’re already off and soaring. Folks, please make way for the self-launched missile man with the reflecting shades.”

Frank just harrumphed as we began to meander down the leaf-covered hillside. We soon reached a small creek. It was actually more of a rill than a creek, as it was only two feet across and only three to four inches deep in the middle; in fact, most of the little stream was less than two inches deep.

“Gosh, we might drown in this river, Frank.”

Frank wasn’t amused by my ridiculous commentary. “It’s the perfect size. I bet it vanishes within two miles.” Vanishes?

“But, do we vanish with it?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Ready to hike upstream?” Frank sure is his fearless self today.

“Towards tomorrow, right?” I’ll play along with the theme.

“Of course.”

“Ok, let’s go.” I sure hope that we make it back to the truck by sundown.

Frank began to hop from stone to boulder to stone in the creek bed, sauntering upstream. After a few strides he hit a wobbly rock, but caught his balance before falling over. Jeez, thank Zeus he didn’t fall and bust his noggin. A medical situation would totally suck out here in our inebriated mental states.

“Whew!” Frank gasped. “That was a close one. A real wobbler there. Be sure to watch your step.”

“Will do. Thanks for the heads-up … or heads-down.”

Frank then looked at me and purposefully rocked the stone back and forth as if giving an on-camera demonstration, before merrily hopping along.

“Why do you think it’s wobbly?” I asked from two strides behind him, just to gauge his mindset, as we continued our fluvial assault on tomorrow. I wonder how much his brain has been zapped by that liquid voltage.

“Why are some rocks in creeks wobbly, you ask? Probably because they recently tumbled downstream in a big downpour or a two-day-long deluge, and haven’t had sufficient time to resettle into the creek bed.” Hmmm … I’m not so sure about that.

“Your stream of consciousness is a little wobbly, Frank, if I do say so. Your theory is teetering in the current. I think it has to do with the shape of the rock. Angular rocks will rock-n-roll. Smooth rounded rocks will just become glued in their silty seats.”

“Glued in their silty seats? Are you quoting Shakespeare?”

“No.” Why in the world did he think that that line came from Shakespeare?

“Listen, Mr. Mike van Tryke, I think it has to do with what is under the rock. You know, what the rock is resting on. If it’s setting on another rock, chances are it’s going to wobble. And if it’s setting in the silt, sand or mud, it’s probably going to be a non-wobbler, regardless of shape.” That actually does make some sense.

“Well, you’re going to have to choose a theory; you can’t run with both. You don’t want to waffle then wobble, or vice versa. That’s the worst. You can’t eat both ends at the same time.” I started to laugh at my little word jokes.

“Sure, I can. We can syncretize all three and leave room for a fourth for dessert.” Syncretize?

“Wow, Frank, you can still hold three thoughts in your mind at the same time? I can barely finish a … sentence.”

“Place an imaginary number beside each thought. You can then keep them in order. Well, until they start to move.” His ship has set sail. He’s cut the anchor line and left the harbor.

“You’re already on a roll, Frank. Good stuff. Bravo. Encore.”

“Well, let me tell you something … ok, I confess: I placed that wobbly rock back there yesterday – it was all staged.”

“Really?! You’re kidding, right?” Did he really do that?

“My God, you are too freaking gullible, dude! Do you really think that I would have driven all the way up here yesterday just to reposition some stones in this little creek? Listen closely to me: Don’t talk to anyone for the next four hours.” Am I already a liability?

“Not even you?”

He didn’t answer. He just tilted his chin up a couple of centimeters. Then he swatted at a gnat. Not sure if he got it; he wasn’t, either.

We continued up the small stream at a faster pace. The gradient started very slight, but started getting a little steeper, yet it was nothing like Pisgah.

Our hearts were pumping our blood around a little faster now, but we were far from over-exerting ourselves. It felt good – good to be moving. This is the perfect hike!

After a few hundred feet, we seemed to just somehow know which stones were likely to be wobbly, and avoided stepping on them. Are there no more wobblers in this gulley? … or, are we just incredibly lucky?

When we were next to some ruins that looked like the foundation and lower level of an old 1800s building, we heard the strangest bird call. <oot-oot, ah-kah, ah-kah, ook-ook> What the fruck was that?!

“What kind of bird is that, Frank?”

“Mockingbird.”

“It sounded like a flying frog.” Flying frog? Why did I say that? Is there a frog that can fly?

“Well, they can mimic the sounds of amphibians. They can even imitate the sounds of crickets and other birds.”

“Well, they can mock us if they like.”

Frank just smirked as I then heard: wel-lay-kah-mah-kus-eef-dee-ligh.

“Did you hear that, Frank?”

“You sound just like that bird.”

“Wow! I guess my brain is serum-saturated already.” I guffawed like a loon.

“Your brain was serum-saturated a long, long time ago, pal o’ mine. You may want to relax a little. For real. Ease up. It’s way too early for the full-blown hysteria.” Hysteria?

“Are we early in the first quarter, Frank?”

“Yes, and you’re already over-reacting to every first-down discovery.” First-down discovery?

“But, it’s the Super Basin of Consciousness, man! I can feel it rinsing my cranium, Frank. George’s sublime serum is a big-time neuronic hit … and run. Hit. Run. Hit. Run. You know, get on base, take another base, and then another, cross home plate, climb into the stands, shake the hands of the fans, be a grand sport, autograph the programs, kiss the babies’ foreheads, shake the hands, chat and tell jokes, smile, smile, smile, and you keep going … and you keep going … and going.” I was saying this to Frank as I started to run upstream, sometimes missing the rocks. My shoes and socks were getting wet. This feels great! I’m running into a new existence.

“Woah, slow down,” Frank cautioned. “If you slip and fall and break a leg, you’re on your own. I’ll flee. I’ll leave your crippled, intoxicated ass right here for the wolves. I swear to God I will.”

“No. No, you won’t. I’ve got your truck keys in my knapsack. You’re not going anywhere without me today.” Let’s see if he falls for it.

Frank patted his front jean pockets. He felt the keys in his right pocket. “You got me that time, you flipped-out flucker.” Flucker?

“Ok, I’ll admit it; I like George’s grog, Frank. Tell him to put me down for a gross. Does he have a Grog-of-the-Month club?”

“Ya know, somehow I knew that I’d end up being the responsible chaperone, while you get to be the free-form, carefree, high-flying space cadet.” Am I getting spacy?

“Listen, I’ll reel it in at half-time, and we’ll switch sides. I’ll be the attentive babysitter for the final one-twenty. Deal?”

“Sure, and I am going to hold you to it.”

And with a nod of acknowledgment, we continued to up-stone the small, sometimes rocky, cackling creek. It was leading us to tomorrow. I could sense it.