Like the center of the galaxy, downtown too, acts likes an infinite void that holds everything else in place, but if you get too close you run the risk of spiraling downward into oblivion. I have seen the effects of this first hand.

The Captain and Hawkboy are two individuals I know very well. They are both mirror animals, The Captain sails a ship across the divide of morality and madness and Hawkboy is always in constant flight, rarely landing – motion is his life force. One night, they ventured too close to the center of the universe.

“What is it?” said The Captain as he stared at the green pill in Hawkboy’s hand.

“Just take it,” Hawkboy said.

“Ehhh . I don’t know man. What is it?” says The Captain.

“Just take it.”

“Alright.”

“So where do you want to go, man?” says Hawkboy.

And with a sure gruff about his face he replied with one word, “Everywhere.”

Grinning with a sly look in his eye, Hawkboy apporovinglynodded and said, “Alright. Let’s do it.”

So from 20th St. the pair ventured deeper into the bowels of downtown, unknowing headed into the hazards of the void.

“I’m getting mad stares from these cops,” says Hawkboy as the meat-headed, red necked, liberal eating cops that make up the bulk of the Bakersfield Police Department streaked by in their street sharks, giving the duo hard glares and bad vibes.

“Well, look at us man. I got a

purple bandana on, butt tight jeans and a far-out looking alpaca sweater,” said the Captain in a tone that sparked some kind of insane confidence.”

“I really like this sweater man, did I tell you that?” said the Captain, “By the way, how long does it take for this to kick in?”

“It is a sweet sweater, and it takes about 30-45 minutes,” says the avian.

“Awesome.”

So, after a visit to a Mediterranean dive where the pair were denied a handout of hummus and pita bread from an employed friend, the two headed out to Mill Creek Park where the sailor and the bird decided to warp into other dimensions.

Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) is a naturally occurring psychedelic that puts the user in a dream-like state. In order to ingest the drug properly, the user must sprinkle the yellow powder down into the sphere of a crack pipe, rolling the pipe gently back and forth as he inhales.

Behind a tree at the park, Hawkboy says, “Can you help me out?”

“Why surely I can, good sir,” so The Captain cups his hands while Hawkboy inhales.

“Anything?” asks The Captain.

“Ehh . no. A little buzz, but no tamale.”

“Damn. Let me try,” says Captain, but after a fiendish attempt, he finds himself unsuccessful. So they migrate across the street and try their luck behind a dumpster to avoid the wind and the passing cars.

“Oh shit, wait . damn, nothing.”

“Let me try.”

As The Captain ingests he is suddenly hit with a moral epiphany. He felt that they’ve gone too far down the rabbit hole – possibly to hell – and in this he hands the pipe back to the Hawk, saying, “I’m done with that.”

With an eyebrow inquisition Hawkboy says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m not digging the crack pipe man, and the dumpster, and the fiend like attempt it requires. Let’s bail.”

Walking back to the center, Hawkboy feeds off

The Captain’s decision and tosses the pipe in a trashcan. They stop for beers and search for something to do. The green pill is in full

effect now and they bleed psychedelic bliss to total strangers beating booze in their chest. Strange conversations and dilated dialogues, inside the bar, receiving a text message the pair are told of a party somewhere far to the east and they ditch downtown.

They pick up a vagabond and his guitar on the way and when they arrive, they

receive some gruff for their gypsy-like nature. For it was a metal-head gathering and with The Captain and the bird came changing winds. The vagabond was silenced for his songs, The Captain was criticized for his friends and the bird was just generally annoyed with the atmosphere. But in light of the storm, The Captain found peace in listening to an original pressing of Van Halen’s first album. They grow bored and rocket back downtown.

Inside a small apartment in a backstreet downtown alley, The Captain starts to take notice of his morality compass. The crack-pipe behind the dumpster had been bothering him all night, and now he finds himself twisted on four different substances in front of a seven-year-old. He tried at first to just ingest more

to fall away from the harsh reality, but no matter how mind-altering madness he consumed he just couldn’t reach oblivion – it was time to revaluate the situation.

“You want another one?” says the birdman.

“No. I’ve gone as far as I want to go tonight.”

“Come on man?”

“I’m going to bed,” says The Captain.

“Yeah . well ok Mateo. You sleep well.”

“I will.”

Nestled in my bed in a moment of clarity, I chuckled at the matters of the night and the strange delusional downtown dance that was the night.