Weeeee

I often wonder if other writers use slices of their lives in their work as often as I. Below is an excerpt from my rock n roll epic, Rising Star. The woman has a dream I lifted from the life of a co-worker at the Commodity Exchange in the mid ‘80’s. Chris, who I don’t believe was even 20 back then, was puzzled as to its meaning. It was a rare instance when the coding was obvious to me. I used another element of his life later in the novel when the guitarist and keyboardist drop acid. Chris had done it countless times and seemed no worse for wear. It took until my 35th year for me to feel stable enough to give it a try. Of all the people in the world who have done drugs, I’ve probably done the least. I haven’t been drunk more than a few times, either. I’m so square. Still, the LSD trip was quite an experience. Fortunately, I never felt the need to do it again. These days Chris is living in Oregon. I’ve friended him on Facebook but we don’t communicate much beyond birthday greetings. I knew him for only a couple of years, but he had a significant impact on my life I’ll remember until I die or go daft.

Susan saw herself gliding along a long, narrow strip of ice that stretched across a pond near her home. Bonnie followed, laughing hysterically. Suddenly large, warm waves were splashing over them. They were breathless from laughter. Susan wanted the pleasurable assault to continue, although she sensed it would eventually become harmful. “Stop, stop!” she pleaded, howling as waves continued to pound them. She didn’t want it ever to stop.
She was awakened by the ringing of the phone. She sprang to a sitting position and gazed about, trying to determine her whereabouts, panicking. Someone groaned beside her, bringing her back to reality.
“Time to get up,” she said, nudging him gently, sliding out of bed, reaching for the phone. “Hello?” She stifled a yawn.
“Miss Klein? This’s Paul Ranga of Rising Star.”
She paused, trying to recall which band that was.
“John Doe.”
“Of course — how could I’ve forgotten that?” she said ironically, reaching for a cigarette. She was irked, having truly forgotten, not merely pretended in order to impart an impression of success. “Sorry. I’ve seen so many bands lately they’ve blended into each other.”
“Can I stop by your office today?”
“No, I’d rather get out of here. I’ve been cooped up all morning. I’ll meet you in front of the Eighth Street Playhouse in an hour. Gotta go. I have another call.”
Her guest groaned and rolled over.
“Hey….”
She was stopped cold by thought. She tiptoed to the sofa and went through the pockets of the pants lying there. She quickly spread a line on the table, indulged, and put the packet back in place.
“Weeee,” she said with restraint, chuckling as she recalled the dream, imagining herself sliding along the strip of ice, bombarded by warm waves.

The chapter is preceded by the main lyric from the following:

It was a second straight quiet session of the floating book shop. My thanks to the elderly woman who did her weekly swap of books in Russian, this time three for three, and to the middle age woman who bought one of those and another from the inventory; and to the woman who purchased paperbacks by Janet Evanovich, Susan Mallory and Julia London.

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