SWARTHOS

The mellow rush is creeping in now, a warm tide of euphoria slinking through my veins like a sly coyote under a desert moon. But hold the line, let’s rewind the tape, back to the raw pulse of this day, where the road and the rhythm took me and my loyal wiener dog, Urt, on a pilgrimage to the Medicine Woman’s lair.

I’d rung them up earlier, my voice crackling through the line, asking if Urt, my four-legged compadre, could tag along. The woman on the other end, all honey and sunshine, chirped, “Of course! We love dogs!” Hell yeah, I thought, me and Urt, we’re a package deal, a rogue duo ready to roll. “Right on,” I told her, “we’ll be there in a flash.” We piled into the car, a beat-up chariot that’s seen more miles than a Kerouac novel, and peeled out—not far, mind you, just enough to dodge the nosy neighbors’ radar, but close enough I could hoof it home if the cosmos demanded.

At the light, the crosstown transit bus wheezed up, belching diesel and dreams. Out steps a hippy, unmistakable as a neon sign in a blackout—beads, patchwork pants, the whole cosmic enchilada. A kindred spirit, no question, on his own quest for the sacred herb. I leaned out the window, hollering a hearty “Hello!” He tossed back a lazy wave, his eyes half-lidded with some private revelation, and shuffled off into the haze.

Minutes later, we hit the Medicine Woman’s joint. Security gave us the once-over—standard procedure in this paranoid age—and me and Urt strutted in like we owned the place. The air was thick with promise, and on this fine May day, warm as a lover’s whisper, they offered me “The Plant.” Oh, sweet mercy, it was like being handed the key to a velvet kingdom. I snagged my prize, tipped my hat, and headed for the door.

And who do I see strolling in but that same damn hippy from the bus stop, materializing like some peyote-fueled vision. “Hey, man!” I called out, grinning like a fool. “I just saw you across town!” He flashed a grin, his voice drifting like smoke: “Yeah, man, I’m all over the place, all at once.” Far-freaking-out, brother. We were two satellites orbiting the same strange star.

Back home now, the herb’s lit, curling tendrils of smoke rising like prayers to heaven. As I hammer out this sentence, the wave’s hitting—euphoria, pure and unfiltered, washing over me like a Pacific swell. Right on, man. Right on.