Read The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
Tags: #United States, #Social Science, #General, #Popular Culture, #History, #20th Century
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (19 page)
ads
“Now that I've got your attention ⦔
Norman and Engber go out back and head up the path that leads into the woods, to look for Kesey. Up past screaming Day-Glo tree trunks and tents here and there and some kind of weird cave down in a gully with Day-Glo objects glowing in the mouth of it and then into deep green glades under the redwoods with the lime light filtering throughâand they keep coming upon weird objects. Suddenly, a whole bed, an old-fashioned iron bedstead, a mattress, a cover, but all glowing with mad stripes and
swirls of orange, red, green yellow Day-Glo. Then a crazed toy horse in a tree trunk. Then a telephoneâa
telephone
âsitting up on a tree stump, glowing in the greeny deeps with beautiful glowing cords of many colors coming out of it. Then a TV set, only with mad Day-Glo designs painted on the screen. Then into a clearing, a flash of sunlight, and down the slope, here comes Kesey. He looks twice as big as the time Norman saw him in L.A. He has on white Levi's and a white T-shirt. He walks very erect and his huge muscled arms swing loose. The redwoods soar all around.
swirls of orange, red, green yellow Day-Glo. Then a crazed toy horse in a tree trunk. Then a telephoneâa
telephone
âsitting up on a tree stump, glowing in the greeny deeps with beautiful glowing cords of many colors coming out of it. Then a TV set, only with mad Day-Glo designs painted on the screen. Then into a clearing, a flash of sunlight, and down the slope, here comes Kesey. He looks twice as big as the time Norman saw him in L.A. He has on white Levi's and a white T-shirt. He walks very erect and his huge muscled arms swing loose. The redwoods soar all around.
Norman says, “Helloâ”
But Kesey just nods slightly and smiles very faintly as if to say, You said you'd be here and here you are. Kesey looks around and then down the slope toward the tent plateaus and the house and the highway and says:
“We're working on many levels here.”
Engber clutches his shoulder and says:
“I don't know what this thing is, Norman, but it's killing me. I've got to go back to L.A.”
“Well, O.K., Evanâ”
“I'll come back up when I get over it.”
Norman kind of knew he wouldn't, and he didn't, but Norman wanted to stick around.
ALL RIGHT, FILM EDITOR, ARTICLE WRITER, PARTICIPANT-Observer, you're here. On with your ⦠editing writing observing. But somehow Norman doesn't start cutting film or writing his column. Almost immediately the strange atmosphere of the place starts rolling over him. There is an atmosphere ofâhow can one describe it?âwe are all
on
to something here, or
into
something, but no one is going to put it into words for you. Put it into wordsâone trouble right away is that he finds it very hard to get into the conversations here in the house in the woods. Everyone is very friendly and most of them are outgoing. But
they are all talking aboutâhow can one describe it?âabout â¦
life
, things that are happening around there, things they are doingâor about
things
of such an abstract and metaphorical nature that he can't fasten them, either. Then he realizes that what it really is is that they are interested in none of the common intellectual currency that makes up the conversations of intellectuals in Hip L.A., the standard topics, books, movies, new political movementsâFor years he and all his friends have been talking about nothing but intellectual products, ideas, concoctions, brain candy, shadows of life, as a substitute for living; yes. They don't even use the usual intellectual words hereâmostly it is just
thing
.
on
to something here, or
into
something, but no one is going to put it into words for you. Put it into wordsâone trouble right away is that he finds it very hard to get into the conversations here in the house in the woods. Everyone is very friendly and most of them are outgoing. But
they are all talking aboutâhow can one describe it?âabout â¦
life
, things that are happening around there, things they are doingâor about
things
of such an abstract and metaphorical nature that he can't fasten them, either. Then he realizes that what it really is is that they are interested in none of the common intellectual currency that makes up the conversations of intellectuals in Hip L.A., the standard topics, books, movies, new political movementsâFor years he and all his friends have been talking about nothing but intellectual products, ideas, concoctions, brain candy, shadows of life, as a substitute for living; yes. They don't even use the usual intellectual words hereâmostly it is just
thing
.
Cassady's
thing
isâchristalmighty, Cassadyâand it is with Cassady that he gets the first sense of the daily allegory at Kesey's, allegorical living, every action a demonstration of a lesson of lifeâlike Cassady's Gestalt Drivingâbut that is
your
term ⦠Whenever there is any driving to be done, Cassady does it. That is Cassady's thing, or his thing on one level. They drive up the mountain, up to Skylonda, atop Cahill Ridge, for something. Coming back, down the mountain, Norman is in the back seat, two or three others are sitting front and back, and Cassady is driving. They start hauling down the mountain, faster and faster, the trees snapping by like in some kind of amusement park ride, only Cassady isn't looking at the road. Or holding onto the wheel. His right hand is flipping the dial on the radio. One rock ân' roll number blips out hereâ
I'm nurding ut noonh erlation
âthen another one here on the dialâ
vronnnh ba-bee suckoo pon-pon
âall the time Cassady is whamming out the beat on the steering wheel with the heel of his left hand and the whole car seems to be shuddering with itâand his head is turned completely around looking Norman squarely in the eye and grinning as if he is having the most congenial delightful conversation with him, only Cassady is doing all the talking, an incredible oral fibrillation of words, nutty nostalgiaâ“a '46 Plymouth, you understand, gear shift like a Dairy Queen pulled up side a '47 Chrysler jumpy little marshmallow fellow in there had a kickdown gear
was gonna ossify the world, you understand”âall to Norman with the happiest smile in the worldâ
thing
isâchristalmighty, Cassadyâand it is with Cassady that he gets the first sense of the daily allegory at Kesey's, allegorical living, every action a demonstration of a lesson of lifeâlike Cassady's Gestalt Drivingâbut that is
your
term ⦠Whenever there is any driving to be done, Cassady does it. That is Cassady's thing, or his thing on one level. They drive up the mountain, up to Skylonda, atop Cahill Ridge, for something. Coming back, down the mountain, Norman is in the back seat, two or three others are sitting front and back, and Cassady is driving. They start hauling down the mountain, faster and faster, the trees snapping by like in some kind of amusement park ride, only Cassady isn't looking at the road. Or holding onto the wheel. His right hand is flipping the dial on the radio. One rock ân' roll number blips out hereâ
I'm nurding ut noonh erlation
âthen another one here on the dialâ
vronnnh ba-bee suckoo pon-pon
âall the time Cassady is whamming out the beat on the steering wheel with the heel of his left hand and the whole car seems to be shuddering with itâand his head is turned completely around looking Norman squarely in the eye and grinning as if he is having the most congenial delightful conversation with him, only Cassady is doing all the talking, an incredible oral fibrillation of words, nutty nostalgiaâ“a '46 Plymouth, you understand, gear shift like a Dairy Queen pulled up side a '47 Chrysler jumpy little marshmallow fellow in there had a kickdown gear
was gonna ossify the world, you understand”âall to Norman with the happiest smile in the worldâ
You crazy foolâthe truckâ
âat the last possible moment somehow Cassady fishtails the car back onto the inside of the curve and the truck shoots by clean black shot like a great 10-ton highballing tear drop of tarâCassady still talking, hanging on the steering wheel, pounding and rapping away. Norman terrified; Norman looks at the others to see ifâbut they're all sitting there throughout the whole maniacal ride as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all.
And maybe that's itâthe first onset of Ahor paranoia hitsâmaybe that's it, maybe he has been sucked into some incredible trap by a bunch of dope-taking crazies who are going to toy with him, for what reason I do notâ
Back at the house he decides to get into his role of Journalist Reporter Observer. At least he will be doing something and be
outside
, sane, detached. He starts asking about this and that, about Cassady, about Babbs, about the ineffable
things
, about whyâ
outside
, sane, detached. He starts asking about this and that, about Cassady, about Babbs, about the ineffable
things
, about whyâ
Mountain Girl explodes suddenly.
“Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!” she says, throwing up her hands and shaking her head, with such an air of authority and conviction that he is crushed.
Later Kesey comes in and happens to say in the course of somethingâ“Cassady doesn't have to think any more”âthen he walks away. It is as if for some reason he is furnishing Norman with part of the puzzle.
Kesey keeps doing this kind of thing. As if by radar, Kesey materializes at the critical moment, in the cabin, out front, in the backhouse, up in the woods. The crisis may be somebody's personal thing or some group thingâsuddenly Kesey pops up like Captain Shotover in Shaw's play
Heartbreak House
, delivers a lineâusually something cryptic, allegorical, or merely descriptive, never a pronouncement or a judgment. Half the time he quotes the wisdom of some local sageâPage says, Cassady says,
Babbs saysâ
Babbs says, if you don't know what the next thing is
,
all you have to
âand just as suddenly he's gone.
Heartbreak House
, delivers a lineâusually something cryptic, allegorical, or merely descriptive, never a pronouncement or a judgment. Half the time he quotes the wisdom of some local sageâPage says, Cassady says,
Babbs saysâ
Babbs says, if you don't know what the next thing is
,
all you have to
âand just as suddenly he's gone.
For exampleâwell, it always seems like there's no dissension around here, no arguments, no conflict, in spite of all these different and in some cases weird personalities ricocheting around and rapping and carrying on. Yet that is only an illusion. It is just that they don't have it out with one another. Instead, they take it to Kesey, all of them forever waiting for Kesey, circling around him.
One kid, known as Pancho Pillow, was a ball-breaker freak. He has to break your balls by coming on obnoxious in any way he could dream up, after which you were supposed to reject him, after which he could feel hurt and blame you for â¦
all.
That was his movie. One night Pancho is in the house with a book about Oriental rugs, full of beautiful color plates, and he is rapping on and on about the beautiful rugsâ
all.
That was his movie. One night Pancho is in the house with a book about Oriental rugs, full of beautiful color plates, and he is rapping on and on about the beautiful rugsâ
“âlike, man, I mean, these cats were turned on
ten centuries
ago, the whole thing, they had mandalas you never
dreamed
ofâright?âlook here, man, I want to blow your mind for you, just one timeâ”
ten centuries
ago, the whole thing, they had mandalas you never
dreamed
ofâright?âlook here, man, I want to blow your mind for you, just one timeâ”
âand he sticks the book under some Prankster's noseâhere's a beautiful color picture of an Isfahan rug, glowing reds and oranges and golds and starlike vibrating lines all radiating out from a medallion at the centerâ
“No thanks, Pancho, I already had some.”
“Come on, man! I mean, like, I gotta
share
this thing, I gotta
make
you see it, I can't keep this whole thing to myself! Like, you know, I mean, I want to
share
it with youâyou dig?ânow you look at this oneâ”
share
this thing, I gotta
make
you see it, I can't keep this whole thing to myself! Like, you know, I mean, I want to
share
it with youâyou dig?ânow you look at this oneâ”
And so on, shoving the goddamn book at everybody, waiting for somebody to tell him to go fuck himself, at which point he can stalk out, fulfilled.
Feed the hungry bee
âbut christ, this ball breaker is too much. So now all the Pranksters
endure
, waiting for one thing, waiting for Kesey to turn up. By and by the door opens and it's Kesey.
âbut christ, this ball breaker is too much. So now all the Pranksters
endure
, waiting for one thing, waiting for Kesey to turn up. By and by the door opens and it's Kesey.
“Hey man!” Pancho says and rushes up to him. “You gotta look at these things I found! I gotta turn you on to this, man! I mean, I really got to, because it will fucking
blow your mind!”
and he sticks the book in Kesey's face.
blow your mind!”
and he sticks the book in Kesey's face.
Kesey just looks down at the picture of the Isfahan or the Shiraz or the Bakhtiari or whatever it is, as if he is studying it. And then he says, softly, in the Oregon drawl,
“Why should I take your bad trip?”
âwithout looking up, as if what he is saying has something to do with this diamond medallion here or this border of turtles and palmsâ
“Bad trip!” Pancho screams. “What do you mean, bad trip!” and he throws the book to the floor, but Kesey is already off into the back of the house. And Pancho knows his whole thing is, in fact, not sharing beauty rugs at all, but simply his bad trip, and
they
all know that's what it's all about, and he
knows
they know it, and the whole game is over and so long, Pancho Pillow.
they
all know that's what it's all about, and he
knows
they know it, and the whole game is over and so long, Pancho Pillow.
AND YET IT BEGAN TO SEEM TO NORMAN THAT EVEN PANCHO was further into the group thing than he was. He felt useless. He never got to edit the movie. Kesey and Babbs would just say do some cutting. But he wanted to see the whole film first, a whole run-through, so he could see where it was going. It was the same with the group. He wanted to run the whole group back through his personal editing machine and see what the whole picture looked like and what the goal was. All the while it seemed like they were probing him, probing him, probing him for weaknesses. Bradley, of all people, blew up at him one morning, started calling him everything he could think of, apparently trying to stir him up. Norman was reading a Sanskrit textbook at the time, trying to learn the alphabet. He figured he might as well do that, since he wasn't doing anything else. He was also smoking a cigarette. Bradley starts in.
“Every time you read a book or smoke a cigarette,” he yells,
“you're
hitting me
. Look at Pancho. Pancho's working. Pancho is writing poetry all the time, and every day he brings me a poemâ”
“you're
hitting me
. Look at Pancho. Pancho's working. Pancho is writing poetry all the time, and every day he brings me a poemâ”
âwhich is ridiculous, Pancho's poems are so bad. In fact, it is so ridiculous Bradley breaks into a smile over it. Nevertheless, the point has been made. Which is that Norman is lazy, “personal.” Reading is something that just gives pleasure to the reader. It is not for the group. Also smokingâa thing that begets nothing but itself. So he is telling Norman that he is lazy and not contributing.
Which is true. He is right
. But he wants to start a fight over it or something. This amuses Norman and he laughs at Bradleyâ
Bradley
âand yet even though it is only Bradley, it seems like an indication of how the rest feel. Otherwise Bradley probably never would have said anything. Norman becomes quieter and quieter, like a clam. And it seemed as if they laughed at himâ
Which is true. He is right
. But he wants to start a fight over it or something. This amuses Norman and he laughs at Bradleyâ
Bradley
âand yet even though it is only Bradley, it seems like an indication of how the rest feel. Otherwise Bradley probably never would have said anything. Norman becomes quieter and quieter, like a clam. And it seemed as if they laughed at himâ
“Not
at
youâ
with
you,” Kesey kept telling him, trying to josh him out of all his hangups and inferiorities.
at
youâ
with
you,” Kesey kept telling him, trying to josh him out of all his hangups and inferiorities.
But the only thing that really helped was having Paul Foster turn up.
Foster was a tall, curly-headed guy in his late twenties with a terrible stutter. He was a mathematician and had been working in Palo Alto as a computer programmer, making a lot of money, apparently. Then he started hanging out with some musicians and they turned him on to a few ⦠mind-expanders, and now Foster's life seemed to alternate between stretches of good straight computer programming, during which he wore a necktie and an iridescent teal-green suit of Zirconpolyesterethylene and was a formidable fellow in the straight world, and stretches of life with ⦠Speed, the Great God Rotor, during which he wore his Importancy Coat. This was a jacket he had turned into a collage. It had layers and layers of ribbons and slogan buttons and reflectors and Cracker Jack favors all over it, piled up and flapping in the breeze until it looked like a lunatic billowsleeve coat from out of the court of Louis XV. He moved into the tree. Sandy had built
a house in the tree, a platform with a tent on it. Paul built one under it; O.K., a duplex tree house. Paul Foster came in with just an enormous amount of stuff, all this stuff. He brought it all in and he set up housekeeping in the tree. He put a window up in the tree, and a gate, and bookshelves. He had strange books. An encyclopedia, only it was an 1893 encyclopedia, and books on the strangest languages, Tagalog, Urdu, and apparently he knew something about all these languages ⦠and more and more
stuff.
He had a huge sack of googaws that he would carry around, of the weirdest stuff, bits of glittering glass and tin and transistor-radio shells, just the shells, and nails and screws and tops and tubes, and inside his sack of weird junk was a little sack that was a miniature of the big sack and contained
tiny
weird junk ⦠and you got the idea that somehow, somewhere in there was a
very
tiny little sack that contained
very
tiny weird junk, and that it went on that way into infinity ⦠He also had a lot of pens, some of them felt-nib pens with colors, and he sat up in the tree house while the old restless Roto-rooter, the good god Speed, scoured puns, puns, puns, puns, puns from out of the walls of his skull and he fashioned signs like one he put at the entrance of the place, where the driveway turned in to the bridge from Route 84, a sign reading: “No Left Turn Unstoned.” Then people would come and he'd entertain them up in his tree house, and at night you would see it lit up like some mad thing, gleaming with Dali-Day-Glo swoops, and he would be up there drawing, drawing, drawing, drawing, or working on a huge mad scrapbook he had â¦
a house in the tree, a platform with a tent on it. Paul built one under it; O.K., a duplex tree house. Paul Foster came in with just an enormous amount of stuff, all this stuff. He brought it all in and he set up housekeeping in the tree. He put a window up in the tree, and a gate, and bookshelves. He had strange books. An encyclopedia, only it was an 1893 encyclopedia, and books on the strangest languages, Tagalog, Urdu, and apparently he knew something about all these languages ⦠and more and more
stuff.
He had a huge sack of googaws that he would carry around, of the weirdest stuff, bits of glittering glass and tin and transistor-radio shells, just the shells, and nails and screws and tops and tubes, and inside his sack of weird junk was a little sack that was a miniature of the big sack and contained
tiny
weird junk ⦠and you got the idea that somehow, somewhere in there was a
very
tiny little sack that contained
very
tiny weird junk, and that it went on that way into infinity ⦠He also had a lot of pens, some of them felt-nib pens with colors, and he sat up in the tree house while the old restless Roto-rooter, the good god Speed, scoured puns, puns, puns, puns, puns from out of the walls of his skull and he fashioned signs like one he put at the entrance of the place, where the driveway turned in to the bridge from Route 84, a sign reading: “No Left Turn Unstoned.” Then people would come and he'd entertain them up in his tree house, and at night you would see it lit up like some mad thing, gleaming with Dali-Day-Glo swoops, and he would be up there drawing, drawing, drawing, drawing, or working on a huge mad scrapbook he had â¦
ads
Other books
The Imperfection of Swans by Brandon Witt
Basketball (or Something Like It) by Nora Raleigh Baskin
Faster We Burn by Chelsea M. Cameron
Love Never-Ending by Anny Cook
Strings by Kat Green
Gay Pride and Prejudice by Kate Christie
The Enduring: Stories of Surviving the Apocalypse by Nicholas Ryan
Heaven Eyes by David Almond
The Missing Dough by Chris Cavender
Streets on Fire by John Shannon