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doubtfully.
    Buying drugs here was risky, but not necessarily from a law enforcement standpoint as Central Park—like 42 nd Street—had always been a haven for drug dealers peddling fake drugs.
    “He’s not straight,” I said dismissively.
    “Uhhh, I beg to differ with you on that,” Helmer responded.
    After several minutes I saw his point. One trait common to all bogus drug dealers is that they’re constantly on the move. You’ll seldom see them lingering in any one location for more than a few seconds, else they risk a serious beating from a victimized buyer, not to mention a legitimate dealer. This guy, however, was stationary… and smiling. Helmer went over to where he was standing and within a minute or two, money was changing hands. He then returned, sat down, and displayed a plastic cigarette-pack wrapper containing three orange pills. Helmer swallowed his and then handed me one of the others. Alan was offered the remaining pill but declined, and as he was bombarded with vaginal references for not participating, I placed mine under my tongue. Slowly, it became the consistency of wet bread and then dissolved completely as we waited to feel the effects.
    Within a half-hour, I wasn’t quite tripping but had noticed the clouds above the skyline seemed richer and thicker. The grass beneath me seemed greener. In fact, everything seemed infinitely grander and more colorful than it was previously—including the drug dealer, who remained in virtually the same position he was when Helmer made the purchase. However, he was now not only smiling—but looking directly at me. As I stared back I could hear him thinking:
    “I know you’re fucked up. I know you know you’re fucked up. And I know you know I know you’re fucked up. ”
    We returned to the apartment while we still had some idea of what was going on. Alan sat on the bed and amused himself while Helmer and I became transfixed by nothing. Although I had never tried mescaline before, it was already my preferred brand of hallucinogen. Everything around me appeared more vivid, and my thoughts were much less chaotic than what I remembered experiencing with similar drugs.
    As the apartment grew darker with the setting sun, we continued to remain within ourselves. Then at some point the phone rang:
    It was Troy calling from Paris.
    He and Helmer spoke for a moment or two as I suddenly felt the need to be alone. Given the dimensions of the studio apartment I was left with no option other than to retire to my closet.
    I entered the closet and sat atop a dirty pile of laundry in almost complete darkness. With the door shut, the little alcove was restricted to only residual light emanating from the kitchen, and the dull glow made my winter jacket barely perceptible as it hung ten inches frommy nose.
    I stared at the sleeve of the jacket and heard Helmer drone on in the background. As he continued his conversation with Troy, a metamorphosis began to take place in the tiny closet. The jacket’s left sleeve was rather quickly transforming itself into what appeared to be the profile of a cow. She was a beautiful cow, perhaps the most beautiful I’d ever seen. She had a sad little eye that looked around as if she was confused, suddenly finding herself alone in the closet with me.
    The beautiful bovine then turned into something vaguely sinister, as her head became a platform of eyes that were each independently searching for something. For what seemed like hours the eyes scanned the darkness in angry desperation, and then slowly dissolved into the black background until just two remained. Suddenly, the greater part of a face began to materialize around the two intense eyes until it finally formed the countenance of a crazed monkey. It stared at me, angrily snapping its jaws in mechanical repetition like one of those symbol-clanging, toy simians.
    As this appeared to be the onset of a bad trip, I left the closet. I then grabbed Helmer, interrupted his conversation with Troy