Any Port In A Storm

San Francisco Nights

...After a prolonged period of silence I began to wonder if MV
was real or a hallucination. I finally decided it didn't matter. He
changed nothing. My thoughts had not changed. I was just a little
more depressed now, that's all. One thing MV said that did make
sense was the part about killing myself. Why, if life was so
worthless and painful do I continue to exist? Suicide was a real
alternative; everybody had that choice. There's nothing insane about that.

I ran down the six flights of stairs; I needed to get out of
that apartment. The walls were closing in on me. On the street, I
don't remember how long I walked. I guess I unconsciously took the
long haired cat walking in front of me to be my security blanket
because I just kept following him. After awhile, he turned and asked
me what I was doing. Luckily, when I told him I was lost in the
city, and tripping on acid he didn't flinch. He just said, "Come
with me; that is, if you want to." As it turned out, he was new in
town and he didn't have anything to do, so he suggested that we both
go to a concert at the Fillmore. I was in no condition to think for
myself, so I agreed.

We took a streetcar across town. The streetcar ride was
fun, especially if you happened to be high. The cat wanted to trip
also, so we went to his brother's apartment where he had a stash of
his own acid. There was an outside chance, according to my friend,
that we might run into Grace Slick, the lead singer of Jefferson
Airplane. Apparently, his brother's friend was having an affair with
Grace and she stopped buy quite a lot. When we arrived, nobody was
home. God, I would have loved to run into Grace, she was one of my
favorite singers.

After my friend, Jim, dropped the acid, he asked me if I
wanted some. I thought to myself, "What the hell, it can't hurt. I'm
already insane," so I ate his acid and the two of us went to the
Fillmore. Steve Miller was the main band. That was just my luck
because the last time I was at the Fillmore, Steve Miller was also
the main band. Albert King, an excellent blues guitarist, was also
on the bill, so I figured it would probably be worth the money.
Unfortunately, I was so ripped that I never did get to communicate
with Jim one on one. After I dropped my second hit, that kind of
communication was out of the question, with him, or anybody else on
the planet. I did not feel good about it, but at the Fillmore we got
separated anyway, so it didn't matter much. I never saw him again.

After Albert King's final set (a great performance I might
add) I left the Fillmore and went back downtown. Walking to my
apartment from Market Street didn't present a problem until I ran
into this drunk, a gay desperado who took an instant liking to me.
He wanted me to go into a bar and have a beer with him. He put his
arm around my neck and acted as if I was his long lost friend. I
just wanted to go back to my apartment, but he didn't take no for an
answer. Before it was over, he was literally dragging me across the
street. Then, from out of nowhere, two black prostitutes rescued me.
They walked up to the cat and said, "Let the sucker go boy." These
girls (and I really did believe they were girls) were bigger than
the guy. Not wanting a confrontation, his hands went up in the air
as he said, "I mean no harm. I mean no harm." I looked up at the
prostitutes who were staring down at me, and managed to get out the
word "Thanks." As I picked myself up and headed down the sidewalk,
the girls were still standing on the street corner. They never did
speak to me.