A Trip Dahntahn

                 It was unseasonably warm and sunny when I woke up, so I called up my brother and proposed a scheme to urban-trip. "Instead of frittering around our apartments," I said,"we'll spend the Saturday afternoon zoned, wandering around the city." He was game.    

                We met at Pat's apartment atop Mt. Washington around noon, cruised over to cop two hits apiece from The Shaman of Pittsburgh, and were back at Pat's fifteen minutes later to ditch the car. At his front door, we dropped (Pat gobbled both his doses right off the bat and I took one) and started the march up to Grandview Ave, where we'd catch the Monongahela Incline down the mountain to Station Square.
                Six blocks later, we reached the summit and my body had already begun to process the Lucy.  I could faintly perceive swirling waves and flashes of white light dancing on the periphery of my sight line.  A slow, steady warmth was proceeding up from my toes to the tips of my ears.  Despite these mild symptoms, I was still very much in control, and Pat casually maintained that his hadn't even come on at all yet.  But when we arrived at the Incline station and I approached the turnstiles to pay for a ticket, my mask of composure was beginning to slip.
               I pulled out my wallet but couldn't seem to count out the three bills the cashier had requested; I just sort of stared into my wallet for a few seconds, mind racing with panic and confusion.  Finally, I plucked out three crumpled ones and forked them over. The cashier gave me the ticket with a disapproving look, but waved me through. Pat stood smirking at me when I caught up to him on the loading platform.  He gestured at something behind me, so I turned and saw our reflections leering back from a circular mirror fastened on the wall.  Pat quickly snapped a cell phone pic of us, mugging like a pair of tripping-billies. I demanded he send me a copy that I would forget about until weeks later when it appeared on Instagram.

                 The Incline car was a cramped wooden box attached to a frighteningly steep track running peak to foot of the mountain.  We rode shoulder to shoulder with a chipper family of five who chattered excitedly about their day's itinerary even as the drugs threatened to transform us into slobbering, rambling, acid-zombies right there in the compartment with them. We politely ignored them and just stared down at our shoes. The descent was agonizingly slow, but we finally reached the foot of Mt. Washington, and the doors whisked open. We fled the car and rushed out into the crisp March afternoon, gulping fresh air, and basking in the picturesque city skyline stretched before us. 

                We embarked across the Smithfield Street bridge; Pat scribbling tags on the railing with a blue Sharpie as we walked along.  The 'cid was really coming on strong, and the Allegheny river rushing beneath us was almost too much to bear. The water rippled and swirled and sparkled like a diamond kaleidoscope, and I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me as I watched it.   

                When we hit the corner of Grant and Smithfield St, Pat suddenly began to feel nauseous.  Hunched over, panting and perspiring, he contemplated whether or not he should pull the trigger.  I advised that vomiting would be the worst possible course of action, and he should try instead to trick his mind into ignoring the sickness entirely. Try to convince himself it wasn't real. He took a few meditative breaths, closed his eyes, and...smiled.  No hurling necessary. 

                Our first destination was Point State Park.  Drifting across the grassy knoll in the long shadows of sky-scrapers, we ridiculed a gaggle of crust punks doing yoga and cackled maniacally.  We whooped and squawked like wacked-out birds to hear our echoes bounce beneath the footbridge.  Some of the folks walking past or cruising by on bicycles eyed us suspiciously.  Even more kept a wide berth, eyes glued to the ground. It was clear we were emitting a sort of unpredictable vibe; a volatile energy.

                We strolled along beside the river a ways before stopping off at a bench to rest. The drugs were hijacking our consciousness. We marveled at the blue heavens and watched as the clouds twisted and transformed like they were just ribbons of steam.  The sky was reflecting the water in such a way that the waves seemed to lap in the sky itself.  Pat and I stood entranced, completely given over to the visions.  After awhile, we came to, and congratulated each other on following through with the day's plan. It was also in that moment that I decided it wasn't too late to pop my second dose, so I busted it out, and stuck it under my tongue.

                We followed the trail to the confluence of the three rivers. The Point State Park fountain wasn't turned on yet, but there were still flocks of people around it, enjoying the sunshine just as we were.  Families, lovers, joggers, bicyclists, tourists, and photographers had all converged.  Pat and I became hypnotized once again watching the water, staring into the clouds, then across the river at the spectacles of PNC Park, Heinz Field, and Rivers Casino; everything infused with such vibrant color and clarity. 

                I suggested we hike all the way across the Clemente bridge to visit the casino for a Fear and Loathing-style adventure, and Pat had immediately agreed.  But when I actually charted the route we'd walk to get there, I reconsidered.  Much too far.  Instead, we stayed perched at the edge of the water for another half hour, rhapsodizing and spouting utter nonsense, before I opined we ought to head back downtown.  Pat was in the zone and refused to budge.  I was only able to talk him into migrating by outlining a quest to the center of town, where we'd watch the city lights flick on one at a time as day turned night.    

                Cautiously, (our motor functions nearly debilitated by then), we picked our way through the busy streets, and finally posted up on a marble planter before a steaming sewer-grate. The frenetic buzz of the city was an assault on our super-charged senses. Huge buses rumbled past, kids on skateboards zipped by, horns honked, shouting and laughter rang out, while we sat watching the twilight unfold.  The denim sky began to fade lavender as office lights flickered on floor by floor until whole towers were lit like beacons.

 

                Eventually, I found myself convincing a very contented Pat that it was time to move again.  It was still early yet, the Lucy still running strong, and it wasn't time to head home, so I led us off in hopes of discovering something else worth seeing. We soon arrived at a crossroads, where Pat suggested we head one way, and I the other.  My decision won out, though, when I pointed out to him that my direction had lots of pretty lights. Like a couple hallucinating moths, we moved toward the light, which actually turned out to be Market Square. The direction was easily the best decision I'd made all day, short of hatching the trip itself.  Market Square was a glittering mirage of music and lights and life; an oasis to our distorted perception of reality.
                 Pat put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "I should never have doubted you, man.  I should just trust that you're always gonna make the right call for both of us. That's why you're my big bro."

                "Don't ever forget it," I replied, reciprocating the shoulder-squeeze. It was actually quite a tender moment between siblings, even if we were zonked half-way to Mars by then. 

                In a courtyard beside Market Square, however, we happened upon a scene that we were not mentally prepared for.  At first glance, it looked to be some bizarre mode of installation art; an enormous projector screen loomed roughly 30-feet in the air, displaying what seemed to be holographic representations of the people milling below via a sensor mounted above them. Concert speakers were piping this eerie, whimsical, ambient music that affected us both to such a degree, we were unable to comprehend anything we were seeing. 

                Pat began to panic as his mind reeled to deduce meaning in the exhibition. Then he was ranting at me, begging me to explain what he was looking at.  "Is it art?!  Is it some sort of coordinated attack?  I think this is it, man.  This is the end of the world.  We're gonna die right here, man.  Any second now.  I'm telling you."

                Truly, by that time, the second dose had effectively scrambled my speech function, and I found I was only able to assuage his terror by sputtering garbled sentences which mostly came out as inanity.

                "Nah, nooo. It's not the end of the world, man. It's just an exhibit...an art...uh, well, it's just for show... not gonna, like, hurt us or anything..."

                He refused to hear me, and went on wringing his hands while pacing in circles, muttering to himself.  Hoping he'd recalibrate his outrageous behavior, I slid a couple steps to my right, and jammed my hands into my pockets. I gazed blearily around at the wall of skyscrapers surrounding us, and the crimson curtain of sky behind them.  I contemplated the spectrum of facial expressions in the crowd; joy, wonder, but mostly, amusement.  Pat was still freaking out over nothing.  I took another run at convincing him as much, and he finally began to calm.  As we stood gathering our wits, a man approached suddenly, and seemed as if he were about to speak to me. I'd never seen him, or the frumpy, docile woman clutching his elbow.

                "Excuse me," he said.  "Hi, there.  Beg pardon, but could ya possibly tell me what this whole thing is all about?"

                Confusion set in and I fumbled with my response. "Um, well, it looks like there's some sort of projector...and, uh, there's, like, a sensor picking up the people...and...well, I guess I can't really explain it..."  Trailing off, I turned and looked up at the projector screen, then back at the man. He brought his thumb up to his chin and posed thoughtfully, nodding as though he understood my explanation perfectly.

                "So, maybe we're not supposed to understand it.  Is that what you're saying?"  he said, grinning.

                I chuckled nervously, hoping he'd just shove off, but he was obviously waiting on my reply.

                "That's definitely what I mean..."

                I glanced over at Pat and realized that he was pointing his phone at us.  He'd been filming the whole bumbling exchange. The man was still standing there smiling at me. His obedient wife was still clutching his arm, transfixed by the screen and music hanging in the air. 

                I forced a smile out of politeness, and said, "Welp...anyway..."

                Finally, the gentleman caught my drift. "Alrighty, then.  Have yourself a pleasant evening now."

                "You, too."

                With that, he disappeared into the teeming humanity in front of the installation. 

                I sighed and turned to Pat. "Why the fuck were you filming me?  I could barely form a cohesive sentence.  I don't think I'm even capable of rational thought right now. I think I might be more wrecked than I've ever been on this stuff. Two hits is nothing to fuck with, man. Shit's not for the faint of heart, I'll tell ya that much.  See that building over there?"  I pointed over at the PPG tower, and Pat's gaze followed. "No joke, it looks like it's leaning over me right now. It looks like it's folding in half, like that scene in Inception where Ellen Page learns to architect the city in half.  I think I might be freaking out..."

                Pat laughed.  His panic attack had passed and he was back to being almost inordinately giddy and introspective.  Irrational fear of the installation gone, he began to scour the audience, seeking someone involved with putting the thing together. 

                "SCUSE ME!" he yelled, "DOES ANYONE WORK HERE?  SCUSE ME!  IS THE ARTIST HERE?  DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?" 

                People started to stare, pointing at him and giggling, while he shambled amongst them, hollering questions at no one in particular.  I shrunk from the pairs of accusing eyes landing on me simply for my association with the nut trying so intently to track down the artist. 

                "Pat! Shut up! Get over here!" I snapped, but he wasn't listening.  Maybe he couldn't hear me.  Maybe he didn't want to.

                Then I noticed a girl, tall, late-20's, smartly dressed, squeezing through the crowd toward Pat.
               "Yes! I work here! Hi! Yes, sir, I work here!," she shouted over the din, but my brother hadn't noticed her until she was standing in front of him. "Excuse me, sir?  Yes, I work here.  I can answer any questions you might have."
                More stares found their way over to Pat as he began jabbering her.  His first question, posed in complete seriousness, was this: "OK, so, first of all, should I be nervous?"

                The girl seemed confused at first, then broke out laughing. "No! Of course not! Nothing to be scared of! It's just art, that's all!"

                Pat laughed heartily, relieved. "Oh my God, I was scared to death! My brother and I seriously thought the world was ending tonight. I was losing my fuckin mind!"

                I'd heard enough and slipped off to the periphery of the masses to hide in shadow, hands buried in my pockets. From afar, I watched Pat geek out, flirt, and try to talk shop with her, but I had no interest in keeping up my end of a conversation. Pat was pointing over at me, and the girl had turned, smiled, and waved. She was surely growing antsy, tired of gabbing with this Joe Blow who'd obviously been into something psychedelic this evening.

                Finally, Pat strutted over to where I stood with a smarmy grin on his face. "That chick works for the artist," he declared. "She's his publicist. She said he's here in the crowd somewhere, just watching all these people react to his work. How fuckin rad is that?"

                I nodded. "Uh, yeah, that's actually pretty cool. It's kinda voyeuristic. I dig that. So, I guess that means the artist isn't a domestic terrorist then?  The installation isn't weaponized?  It's not just a bells-and-whistles diversion to lull us all to sleep before the hammer drops?"

                Pat chuckled sheepishly and lit a smoke. "OK, so maybe I was tweaking out a little bit. But, you were nervous, too!  Admit it!  This stuff is sooo strong. I'm still tripping sack really fuckin hard.  You?"

                "Oh, yeah. Still down the rabbit hole, for sure."

                I was actually feeling pangs of regret over popping the second dose when just one would have more than sufficed, but I stifled them as best I could. The visions were every bit as lucid and intense as they'd been several hours ago at sunset, and the bustle of the city and the scenes we kept stumbling upon were a lot to process. The escalating absurdity of each encounter had colored reality with a hazy, dream-like quality. 

                "Do you think today was special?" I asked Pat, casually.

                "Special how?"

                "I dunno...I mean, when I woke up this morning and saw how gorgeous it was outside, I decided that you and I were gonna do something interesting with the day.  Something unusual.  Maybe broaden our minds, maybe learn something about our city...or something about ourselves?  I don't know. Nevermind, I can't explain..."

                "No, no, I think I understand. Totally. Today was somethin else. I'm really glad we did this, man."

                "Me too. Maybe, now that the world's not ending, we can do it again some time?"

                It took a long time and some intense bargaining, but I managed to pry Pat away from Market Square and the art installation he was now so utterly obsessed with.  He argued passionately against leaving, insisting that we "stay where the people were, stay in the light, in life's chaos".  But I was over it, and played my trump card, which was simply to remind Pat of his own words spoken just an hour ago.

                "Pat...can I ask you something?  Do you recall saying that you should never doubt me?  That my decisions today were made strictly in our mutual best interests and the best interests of the trip?  Well, now I'm telling you that this spot is played out, and we need a change of scenery.  So, will you come with me, or should I leave you here by yourself, because I'm migrating."

                Pat relented with a sigh. "Fine. Have it your way. Lead on..."

                We only made it a block before we were waylaid again. This time, by the giant spotlights bathing the granite courtyard of PPG Place in rainbow-colored light. The beams splashed the whole expanse in surreal waves of color that absolutely boggled my perception. I recoiled at the intensity of the sudden head rushes I was experiencing; terrified the trip was spiraling out of my control. I shut my eyes tight, took some soothing breaths, then eased my eyes open again. The rushes gradually subsided, and I was driving again.              

                Suddenly, and for no good reason I could ascertain, a Pittsburgh police working traffic at the nearest intersection, was ordering us off the property immediately or face arrest for trespassing.  Pat was in la-la land, completely oblivious to the officer's warning, so I grabbed his arm and together we shuffled off up the sidewalk.  I didn't know where we were going next, but I had an inkling it was about time to start drifting back to where our journey began: the Mon Incline. 

                Creeping down ominous back streets, flanked by bloated dumpsters, rusty fire-escapes and Emergency Exits, we were delivered into a well-lit parking lot.

                "Holy shit!" cried Pat, eyes wide. "Check that out!"  

                I pivoted, and there, plastered up on the crumbling brick wall, was an original, authentic Shepard Fairey OBEY mural, nearly 20-feet wide by 20-feet tall, staring down at us like a deity.

                "Whoa. That's fuckin rad! Shepard must have thrown that up when he was in town for his exhibition at the Warhol last year. His Street Team hid Andre the Giant stickers on buildings and telephone poles and billboards all over town like Easter eggs. There are a couple sick pieces over in Southside, too."

                We took out our phones and snapped some pics for posterity.

                I smiled inwardly as I grasped the irony in stumbling across this final gem on our way back home. Before Pat had agreed to the walkabout, he had first rejected my proposal to hit the Carnegie Museum of Art.  As it turned out, the universe would present us a gallery of equally stunning beauty, without even charging the price of admission.

                "I just realized something," I began. "You didn't want to go to the museum, right? But we still wound up seeing some uncanny works of art.  First, the sky and the clouds and the water at the Point. Then, we watched the sun go down and saw the city light up right in front of us. Then, Market Square, the End-of-the-World installation, and the LED rainbow in the courtyard. Now, we find this incredible Shepard original in some dreary back alley parking lot?  Honestly, I'm not a big believer in fate or what-have-you, but today was pretty damn fateful. Like it was all just meant to be..."

                Pat nodded thoughtfully, allowing the notion sink in. "Yeah, it was pretty perfect, wasn't it?  Fuckin great trip, man. Good times..."

                We were pretty fatigued when we reached the Smithfield Street bridge en route to the Incline.  Beads of sweat massed at my hairline.  My feet were so sore I couldn't wait to get off them.  We plodded along in silence, regarding the great Steel City in all its incandescent splendor.  Every few yards, Pat would linger to scribble more graffiti with his blue Sharpie, in plain view of passing pedestrians.

                When, at last, we approached the incline station it was almost 9PM, but seemed much later.  We fished out our return-tickets and presented them to the man stationed at the turnstile. We climbed all the way to the uppermost loading platform, where we figured on getting a compartment to ourselves given the scarcity of other passengers waiting around.  The incline car was making its final descent down the mountain; the end to our long, strange trip was in sight.

                Then, below us, the station door banged open, and we saw a host of teenage girls sashay through the turnstiles with parents in tow.  The girls clambered all the way up the stairs until they were standing beside us. I shot a concerned glance at Pat who rolled his eyes.  The car docked and the doors slid open. We climbed into the compartment first, and took a couple jump-seats fastened to one wall. The seats were barely wide enough for our asses to fit on, so we had to sort of squat; supporting most of our weight with our knees and ankles to keep from falling on our faces. The girls piled in behind us, squeezing onto the bench opposite us.  They giggled and snapped their gum and whispered to each other the whole way to the top.  A few compartments below, I could see the parents watching like hawks, poised to swoop into action should we delinquents go and decide to get fresh with their helpless babes. But they had nothing to worry about whatsoever.

                We only sat in dazed silence; Pat staring down at his shoe tops, and I out the window at the pitch-dark mountainside.  The dwindling LSD wrought a hellish sensation of claustrophobia, and my legs twitched, aching to kick out and run.  I forced myself to meditate; to detach mind from body for a few minutes until we could reach the summit.

                "Oh my god," squeaked one of the girls, "these poor guys are like, 'get me outta here!'"

                She didn't know the half of it, but we chuckled out of politeness.

                "Noooo," I croaked, "It's not you guys.  It's us, honestly.  We've just had a really long day, that's all. You guys are fine." 

                They tittered again, and I turned my attention back out the window. The ascent lasted an eternity, but at long last, the car doors whisked open.  Pat and I bounded out of the compartment, through the station doors, and burst into the cool night air. 

                "Shit, man," I gasped, as we moved up Grandview Ave. toward Pat's apartment. "What the hell was that all about?"

                Pat shook his head but said nothing. He was through trying to explain the inexplicable.

                I shrugged and lit a smoke.  I was done, too.