I left the library with a couple of toothbrushes in hand. I unlocked my bike and headed toward Trader Joes. I thought I'd pick myself up a kombucha that is made from black tea and has 5% alcohol content.

On Selma, I saw Darrell stumbling like he was on a ship as a storm, powered by Zeus' thunderbolts, raged on. -- What was going on with him?

I stopped my bike alongside the curb, placing one foot on the curb, the other on the street so that I could use my broken seat to rest my backpack's weight on. -- Too many books ...

"Darrell, why are you walking funny?" I asked a smile half-cocked across my face. I've seen him like this before, stumbling on the street from tree to a pay station to another tree take a minute when a normal walking pace clears out in seconds.

Never like this though.

"I'm not walking funny," his mumbles words recognizable only by blocking out the surrounding traffic passing on the side street. "I'm fine. Just weed."

I've heard about some people that get high might experience something like he was if they were smoking for the first couple of times in their lives or don't smoke it that often, perhaps once a year.

Pointing fingers, hmm... I've eaten too many pot brownie cookies which led to similar effects.

Pharmaceuticals are handed out like candy - could he be on those? I don't use them because of these effects I saw before me.

"You probably shouldn't be smoking," I said.

"Why? What wrong?"

Possibly he was playing dumb with me. He does like to do that. Or, he is so fucked up that he wouldn't know up if it dropped on him.

"Funny. Darrell. You can hardly stand still, if at all." He's a ball in a small tornado getting smacked from wall to wall within a 10-foot box. Me holding onto his shirt or arm did little good to stead his balance as he stumbled back out of my reach.

At this point, there is a little cause for concern. "Darrell, what is up? You're stumbling all over the place."

Darrell mumbled something inaudible as a security guard from the old folks home strolled behind him down the street, then stopped, looked back over his shoulder, and turned around. From the corner of my eye, I could see his attention was on someone who walked to the front door, pulled on the door that needed a keycard to open, got rejected, and left. The security guard then turned around and meandered down the street to perform other duties.

"Are you on anything else?" I asked.

"No. Come on, dude. Only weed. I don't do that other shit. I just don't smoke that much." His sagging eyelids showing his dried, red eyes. His face moles got larger as he stumbled toward me, his face almost smacking into mine. I reached out with my arms to keep him back.

Again, holding him did little good. It worked for a second before he was whisked away to a pole and then a tree and almost falling down in the dirt and stumbled into the street, luckily there was little traffic, and staggered back and forth for a minute almost touching passing cars.

"Darrel, man, get out of the street."

"No. I'm fine."

"Whatever. Get out of the street."

He comes back to where I am. He puts the bag he has in his hands on one of my handle bars. I saw in the bag some eggs and other items. I held up a toothbrush and said that I'm giving him one as I slip it into his bag. He pulled out the toothbrush and looked at it as his hands swung the toothbrush from side to side as if casting a spell to raise death from his grave.

"You're giving this to me?"

"Yes."

He places it back in the bag. "I'm going to give you some weed."

He takes out the packet and, instead of opening it with his hands like any normal person, he blows on the top expecting the bag to puff open. It doesn't. He blows some more.

"Would you like some help?"

"No. I got this."

A minute goes by before he gets the bag open. He tips it upside down in his hand to pour some out, almost spilling the contents of the bag on the ground. He has me get some from his hand.

I load my bowl and put it away for later as he begins to roll a joint. I drop the last toothbrush I have in his bag and thank him for his generous donation.

When the joint is rolled, he lit it and began smoking. I couldn't help but ask, "May I have a hit." He handed it over. I took two big hits and hand it back to him.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm going to drop, just like I would feel if I smoked tobacco.

"Oh, shit!" I exclaim. "Is there tobacco in that?" My head is light and my body reminded me of a Charlie Brown puppet push-up toy.

"Yes. Why? You don't smoke it that often, do you?"

"No. I hate tobacco."

After a few seconds, he asked, "Do you drink coffee?"

I can't see straight or think for that matter from the head rush. "Yeah, but no. I mean, I'm wanting to quit altogether so yeah sometimes, but not right now."

"Would you like tea?'

"Tea?" I asked as if I've never heard of the stuff.

"Tea. There's a shop on the corner."

"I've got no money." I'm leaning heavily on my bike.

"I've got you." He takes steps toward the direction that we'd need to go. "Are you coming? My treat."

Then I saw a decision flash across my mind as Darrel became some drug lord that the whole neighborhood warned every person to stay away from.

"Are you coming or not?" He waves with his hand.

I saw that if I went with Darrel that my life would be over as my seba flashed in my memory. No more Taiji with my seba. No more enjoyment of any kind. Just a black, deep, dark hole awaited for me if I followed him. The other choice was walking away. I contemplated this for a second.

Here was Darrell. Rationally, I knew it was him and not the things that I'd created in my mind.

Everything in my body told me to run, to get out of there, to stay on the lit path. "I've got to go. I've got to go. I've got to go." I repeated it several more times over Darrell asking me to join him for tea. I turned my bike around, got on, and headed down the street. However, something very strange was happening. Where did my coordination go? It's like I've never ridden a bike in my entire life.

I stop on the curb at the red light. My heart is pounding. My ankles are shaking. My breath is quicker than normal. I feel fearful that Darrell is going to chase after me and beat me over the head with a lead pipe.

The light turned green. I'm almost hit by a car as my wheel jerked to the left. I'm barely able to recover. I see people, but only slightly. I can't look at them directly in the face. I'm not feeling well. I'm stopped again at another light.

"What the FUCK is going on with me?!?" I thought.

The light turned green and I almost face plant the street. My wheel is jerking from left to right. I don't understand what is going on. I decided it would be better that I ride on the sidewalk after almost hitting a parked car for the third time. The fear of someone chasing my is still present. I almost crash into a tree.

I'm back on the street after I checked for cars. There were none coming in my direction so I thought I'd be okay. I know how to ride a bike. -- What the FUCK is going on with me?"

Attempting to go in between scaff-holding, I fell down and almost hit a pole with my head.

At this point, I think it is best to walk so I do.

The feeling lasts for about another 30 minutes before it begins to fade away.

When I woke up the next day, I immediately went to Darrell's residence. Fortunately, he is coming out of his building's bathroom as I am knocking on the window. When I caught his attention, he comes to the door like I'm interrupting something he was doing. Today, though, he is acting normal, as in not stumbling from side to side.

"What do you want?" he asked, annoyed by my presence.

"What was in that stuff that you gave me yesterday?" I asked without attacking him.

"I didn't see you yesterday. That was the day before."

"No, it was yesterday."

"Dude. No, it wasn't. I have the receipt to prove it."

"It will say you got the stuff yesterday. What did you give me to smoke?"

"I didn't give you anything. I don't even smoke."

"What the fuck are you talking about? We smoked yesterday there on Selma." I'm getting annoyed at his apparent lack of care and his memory challenge that was currently present.

"Dude, I had a doctor's appointment yesterday and some other errands. We never saw each other yesterday and we never smoked. You need to stay away from that stuff."

My face dropped. -- What the fuck? "Darrell," I said calmly, "What the fuck was in that shit that we smoked?"

He got more agitated by my question. "I don't smoke. You need to stop that shit. Look, dude, I'm not going to stand out here and argue with you. I've got a painter coming."

"You're being serious. You don't remember?"

"Nothing happened. That was the day before and we can go to the police station to get the security cameras to prove it. You're on some shit and you'd better stop smoking it." His voice was raised a little bit.

I felt a sickness rise up in me at this point. Here is a man I saw in a completely different light than I had before this point. His lack of care for my safety, his apparent memory loss, and his attacks on my character were enough to almost make me swing on him.

I felt my revolt with disgust.

"You know what, Darrell. Don't ever speak to me again."

"You got it, pal. Don't ever speak to me again and bringing your crazy stories around me."

There was nothing more to say. I turned and left.

I'll probably see him on the street again - stumbling from pole to tree to pole and then the street, but no longer will I be taking anything from him or even talking to him. I'm done with people like that real quick.

Moral of the story. Stay away from phencyclidine (PCP, angel dust) and the people who smoke it.

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