Rock All Night(74)

“I didn’t know you liked orange juice so much,” I said.

“It’s for all of us,” he explained. “Helps with the mushrooms. Intensifies the high. And helps you wash them down, since they taste like shite.”

“Literally,” Derek said. “Since they grow in cow shit.”

“Great,” I muttered, my stomach turning – and not just from the image of what I was going to ingest being plucked out of cow patties.

No, my stomach was upset because now it was real.

This was really going to happen.

We actually didn’t go to Joshua Tree National Park – at least not right away. Instead, we wound our way through dusty back roads, past trailer homes and barren fields of cactus and rock, until we wound up at a tiny group of cabins out in the desert.

“What’s this?”

“This is the fine establishment where we’re staying,” Killian said as he climbed out of the car. “Bob’s Desert Oasis.”

“…Bob?”

As we got out of the car, a barking pack of dogs – half a dozen of them – raced out of the main house. They were all mutts, though there seemed to be a lot of labrador in the mix. I jumped back in the convertible, but Derek bent over and held out his hands. The dogs raced around him, sniffing him, jumping up on his jeans excitedly.

Even strange dogs liked Derek.

They liked Killian, too, although he didn’t let them touch his hands (or his guitar). But he did murmur soothing things like, “How are ya, luv,” and “Ooh, good boy, good boy.” They seemed to realize that jumping up on him was off-limits, and behaved themselves accordingly.

An overweight man in a red flannel short-sleeve shirt and overalls came out of the main house and waddled after the dogs. He had a bushy white beard, rosy cheeks, and tiny gold-rimmed spectacles. For a second I wondered if we’d found Santa Claus’s summer home.

“Mr. Derek, Mr. Killian,” the man said jovially, and shook hands with both of them.

Everyone exchanged a few pleasantries – how was the drive, how have you been – and then Santa Bob said, “I see we have newcomers.”

Derek gestured to me. “Yeah, this is Kaitlyn – ”

“Hi,” I said nervously. I wondered if he knew we were there to do drugs… and what in the world was he thinking of me right about now?

“ – and this is Ryan. He’s our bassist.”

“Hi there,” Ryan said, and shook Bob’s proffered hand.

“Very nice to meet you. Any friends of Derek and Killian’s are friends of mine.” He fished some keys out of his pocket and handed them to Derek. “Got your cabins all ready for you. You’ve got the last two on the end, real secluded, just like you asked. Sorry I couldn’t get you three – but the one’s got two double beds in it, just like you asked.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

“Well, I’ll let you folks get unpacked,” he said amiably, then shouted, “Come on doggies, come on! Come on!” as he walked back towards the house, with the dogs yapping and yipping and racing all around him.

I looked over at Derek. “Where the hell did you find this place?”

He looked at me like I’d just asked a very confusing question. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Well… you’re a rock star who just bought a ninety-five thousand dollar car on a whim. This isn’t exactly the Dubai.”

He grinned as he pulled our bags out of the trunk. “Not every place has to be the Dubai, Kaitlyn.”

“I found out about him through a friend,” Killian said. “Bob is known for several things: his friendliness, the isolation of his establishment… and his discretion.”

“Which is just as important as staying at the Dubai,” Derek said.

“Especially when you’re doing drugs,” Ryan said facetiously.

“When you plan to walk around trippin’ your balls off, it most definitely is,” Killian said. “Come along, then, let’s go, we’re burning daylight.”





61




Derek’s and my cabin was nice and cozy. Nothing fancy, but there was a queen-size bed in the bedroom, a den with chairs upholstered in a print only old people could love, and a kitchen with a refrigerator and stove-top. Derek and I stashed the groceries in our fridge, and then Killian and Ryan came on over after they’d got situated.

“Well, are we ready?” Killian asked gleefully, and pulled out a clear Ziploc bag, the type you might store sandwiches in. It was filled with dried-out mushrooms with long, skinny stems and flattened brown caps. “Pour the orange juice, will you, Derek?”

I watched nervously as Killian apportioned the mushrooms into three tiny piles on the countertop. Two were almost twice as big as the third.

“Why aren’t they the same size?” I asked.

“That,” Killian said, pointing at the small pile, “is for you. It’s a regular portion. As experienced cosmonauts of the infinite mind, I decided to give myself and Derek a double portion – but I can give you a bit more, if you – ”


“No no no, that’s fine,” I interrupted him. “Regular is fine.”

Ryan watched me with concern as I picked up one of the mushrooms and inspected it. It was light as a feather, felt like handmade paper you can buy in stationary stores, and smelled like ass. I made a face.