What do you think?
Rate this book


256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 14, 2020
Then one Friday, Oscar returned from school and Mr. Cigar was on Oscar’s bed instead of his usual place in front of the closet. Curiously, Oscar examined the closet to find the thing missing. Where is it? Oscar thought and sat next to Mr. Cigar on the bed. Mr. Cigar gave him an unfamiliar glance, then rolled over to reveal something remarkable.
There, clinging to Mr. Cigar’s underside, was an odd, doglike animal that was about five inches long. The little creature stared at Oscar with inviting, humanlike eyes and yawned, revealing a mouth full of tiny razor-sharp teeth. It had fur like a dog, four legs and a tail like a dog. The ears were smaller and pointier than a dog’s.
Most amazingly, however, this creature had wings—wings that were slightly fur-covered and batlike. Without regard to consequence, Oscar reached to touch the critter, and in an instant, it took flight. After rapidly circling the room several times, it landed on Oscar’s desk and then promptly disappeared. What just happened? thought Oscar. What had he seen? Was any of it real? After answering, I don’t know, to all these questions, Oscar realized the creature had not disappeared, but had somehow changed the color of its wings to match the color of its surroundings.
I tell Mike, “I’m not feeling so good. I’m glad I’m not doing any of that Molly. I might not be able to handle it.”
“Double wow,” Mike says as we ease onto FM 66. “I assumed you saw me dump that huge blast into your Red Bull. I also put a little orange microdot in there. Just to round out the experience.”
“Uh . . . What’s ‘orange microdot,’ Mike?”
“Acid, dude. You know: the old Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. It’s super clean . . . I got it off a totally legit deadhead in Copenhagen.”
I feel panicked.
“Holy shit, man!”
“Don’t worry, dude; it’s totally for reals. Homeboy got it from Petaluma Al in Amsterdam. You’ll thank me later . . . The colors are awesome.”
Oh, great, I regret to myself, Petaluma Al: the Pablo Escobar of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide . . . LSD
“No, you don’t understand, Mike. I don’t do drugs.” He laughs.
“That’s the same way I am, man. It’s a complete misnomer to call psychedelics ‘drugs.’ I think of ’em as a sort of a mind Band-Aid. When your reality gets scraped, you need a little first aid. I feel so-o-o good . . . Wow, cool, this is great. I’m never going to eat again. Cool. Wow.”
I laugh too. Wow. Wow, cool. Mike is kind of funny, though. Actually, really funny. Then he lets out this laugh that sounds like Richard Widmark pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs in a funky old noir flick. I’m not sure if I say this out loud or just think it.
“That’s what I’m famous for.”
He cackles and starts up in with the wow-cool-wow stuff again. It’s getting kind of crispy at the edges of my field of vision. Why am I laughing?