We climbed on to the roof so we could smoke our DMT in peace. Ethan had gotten the hallucinogen from a coworker who had extracted the drug from tree bark or something (I never quite got the whole story out of him). He held out the DMT so I could see it. The dime bag was half filled with a pale orange powder, and though it didn’t look like much, DMT is not a drug to underestimate.
He sprinkled a pinch of it over a bowl of weed and handed me the pipe. Hallucinogens always make me nervous, especially after a drawn-out bad shroom trip I had at a reggae festival. But because DMT hallucinations only last about twenty minutes, I knew I wouldn’t be locked in a bad trip for too long, should it come to that.
I lit the bowl and inhaled. The DMT tasted like a stale fart and I held it deep in my lungs until my vision started to warble and my body began to sink into the scratchy roofing. Everything was alive and breathing. The street was shooting the shit with the sidewalk and two bicycles chained to the same pole were making out and the avocado trees were ebbing and flowing in a magnificent waltz.
I watched eagerly with my knees pressed up against my chin. The sky was the purest azure and the current of the Pacific Ocean was tranquil and sapphire. Both were smiling at me, saying “This is what you’ve failed to notice.” The soot, dead pine needles, and cigarette butts on the roof were swirling, weaving into symmetrical shapes that cascaded into themselves. Everything bellow me on Bermuda Street was billowing and surging in a staggering masquerade. I was giggling hysterically, like a child riding Space Mountain for the first time. Not because anything was funny, but because I felt like a blind man who could finally see. I was Bartimaeus and DMT was Christ, laying his hands on me as he passed through Jericho. And as the drug began to fade everything gradually fell static, as if the world around me turned to stone.