She was named Violet. The V was for Vision.
Later, she became Scarlet. Her opposite in visible light, but so close around the span of the wheel. Just a single step’s difference, really. Hardly different at all, she could tell herself.
—
He told me that every man and every woman is a star. Said we are all a universe unto ourselves. I told him it sounded like he was quoting something.
“Ninety years hence,” he muttered between flat lips while lighting a joint.
Voice-tinged-metal with smoke, he said in that moment I reminded him of the goddess Astraea, said she was the last truly immortal thing to walk this earth. Cast out for the sake of the paradigm, those were his words. She became a constellation.
Virgo.
V. For Vision.
—
I sat there, eyes shut, running my fingers idly through the shag-carpeted interior of Hunter’s 1971 Dodge Tradesman, which he had some time that last summer dubbed the ‘Nim-rod’. I tried very hard to pretend I didn’t have a body, to pretend that I was just an unconscious mind unmoored across space and time, and not twenty-two and very sick on mushrooms in a smelly van out in the north woods, being lectured about the ‘hologram nature’ of reality by a guy I knew better than to like as much as I did.
“Hit?”, Hunter asked in my direction, equal parts concern and amusement in his voice.
I sucked air in through my teeth, not sure if my stomach was reporting lizard-brained hunger or the leaden weight of nauseatic urgency. I decided to let it ride. “Keep working on it,” I said, studying the dome light through my eyelids, “I’ll let you know if I wanna polish it off.”
Hunter made a sort of harsh consonant noise in affirmation, and I heard a soft cherry sizzle as he sucked away at his dubois. I let go of the carpet, the plush impression lingered on my fingertips for what became an uncomfortably long time.
“Mm,” I grunted, clearing my nose with a hard sniff, then wheezed. “Smells nice. What’s this one called? Don’t tell me if it’s gross.”
Hunter sat silent for a moment. “Cheetah piss,” he said, holding an inhale, the play of a lying smile in his voice. “And I put the last of the chief in it, that’s why it’s so, uh, floral.”
“I said don’t tell me!”, one eye slitting open just brave enough that I could lob a kick at him, and miss.
“Anyway, I got it from the Reverend. I’m surprised you don’t recognize it. Your place must reek of the stuff, what with his, uh—”.
I cut him off, warning, “Hunter.”
“What?”, he complained flatly, but decided it wasn’t worth the retread. “Okay, whatever. I got it from him. Says a guy from a place I don’t remember grew it. Sounded like — who was that scientist — ‘Avogadro’, maybe.”
“From Alla-Gadda?”, I asked, sitting upright, squinting intently.
“Bingo,” he said, taking another drag. “Hey, you want any of this? It’ll be down to the dregs soon.”
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I said, reaching out, hoping the shakiness in my voice sounded like it was drug-induced. “Lemme finish it.”
“Atta girl. I knew you’d feel better.”
—
Within thirty minutes I was back on I-39, sending the Nim-rod complaining into the red zone, which it did at around 65 miles per hour. If what I thought was happening was, in fact, happening, there was precious little time. If not, well, I could tell Hunter I bugged out. I’d probably tell him that, anyway. He’d forgive me.
I had lifted the keys when he went off to relieve himself in the camp outhouse. Of course, I didn’t leave him totally out of sorts. It was a beautiful night, and I dumped his sleeping bag and other effects before heading out. In the morning he could use the office’s phone, and one of his friends or coworkers could be out to get him by noon.
Really, he’d be fine. He’d have a funny story about being stranded in the woods by a girl on a bad shroom trip, and win some sympathy from his buds in the process.
I clicked on the dome light, unfolding over the wheel a road map of Wisconsin that probably came with the van. Fucking podunk town was always so hard to find. The Lake made sure of that.
My eyes were swimming and struggling to focus as they darted between the map and the weak beams illuminating the road ahead, so it was a gut-punch when I finally noticed my vision changing. It had shifted in its subtle totality into a four-color pallet, stark and horrible, matching the ink of the map.
Black. Yellow. Red. White.
The Humors of Alla-Gadda.
This was bad. Oh, this was so very bad.
I tossed the map onto the bucket seat, in turns swearing, hyperventilating, and pounding the wheel with my palm. I got halfway through a set of Hail Marys before I had to slam on the brakes and throw up out the window.
It only made me feel worse.
