## Robotripping - Fall 1994 The Wednesday before Thanksgiving was slow, cold, and pointless—just a half-day at school. Mick strolled into study hall and spotted Eric—his most chaotic, least responsible, and oldest friend—slouched at one of the cafeteria's cracked plastic picnic tables. Dropping his bag with a thud, Mick sat down. “What’s up, douche?” “Eat a bowl of dicks,” came the automatic reply. “I’m off Friday. First one I’ve had in months. Let’s do something decent.” “Sucks to be you. Work is for pussies.” Eric leaned back, smirking. “I’ve got a couple ideas brewing.” “Option one—” he held up his index finger, “we score some beer and crash in my basement. Just the usual four: me, you, David, and Tim.” He unzipped his backpack and tossed a glossy postcard onto the table. “Or option two—” he raised his index and middle fingers with a grin, “we figure out where this is.” Mick picked up the flyer, thumbing the slick card before flipping it over. “Option two. No question,” Mick said. “I haven’t been to a rave in months.” "Aight. Let’s get David and Tim in on this," Eric smirked. "Robo-trippin’s gonna have to be the play—I can’t score anything else before then." "That works, it's been a while since I went trippin'. I’ll grab David, I’m giving him a ride home. You get Tim?" Mick grinned. In perfect sync, like they’d rehearsed it every weekend since middle school, both dropped into bad impressions and said: "I love it when a plan comes together." --- Tim pulled through a spot near the main entrance of the local Fred Meyer, angling for an easy escape. "How are we doing this?" Tim asked, glancing around the dim interior of the Volvo. All eyes turned toward Eric, expecting wisdom—or at least a sketchy plan. He cleared his throat with a phlegmy smoker’s hack. “We keep it simple. In and out. No screwing around,” Eric said. “First—Tim, David—you guys ever robo-tripped before?” “Not exactly,” David admitted from the back seat. “Same,” Tim added from behind the wheel. “Alright, quick rundown,” Eric began, channeling his inner drugstore sommelier. “Robitussin gets you ripped fastest, but wears off quick. It’s cherry-flavored, but sweeter—super bitter aftertaste. Like that numb-gel shit the dentist puts on a cotton swab.” “Delsym,” he continued, “takes thirty minutes to kick in. Tastes like orange sandpaper. It’ll fuck you up for hours—I’ve tripped for twelve straight before. Kinda fun, mostly awful. And if you puke it up? The worst.” He pointed toward Tim. “You’re driving. The rave’s in the NW industrial area—at least twenty minutes out. So: Delsym.” Then he turned to the back seat. “David—go Robo. Down as much as you can, three-quarters minimum.” Eric looked to Mick, eyebrow raised. “Dealer’s choice. Go short or long. I’m sticking with Robo—hoping to score some E later, anyway.” The four friends piled out of Tim’s car and split into pairs. Mick and Eric headed for the garden entrance; Tim and David walked toward the main doors. Inside, the clinically bright fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bouncing off waxed floor tiles. Mick and Eric slipped through the sliding doors at the far end of the store, giving Tim and David a head-start to grab their stash and bail. “So, tell me about that new hottie at your work,” Eric said, jabbing Mick in the ribs. “You mean Lara?” Mick asked. “I guess. Platinum blonde, skinny, nice rack—she was working the counter last Friday when I stopped in.” “Yeah, that’s her. She’s cool. I’ve given her a ride home a couple times. She lives with some guy—boyfriend or something.” “Of course she does. I’d still pee in her butt.” “Jesus fuck, Eric. You’re a sick motherfucker.” Mick chuckled despite himself. Eric grinned. “You love me.” He paused mid-stride. “Wait—hold up. Tim and David just left the cold medicine aisle. We gotta give it a minute or they’ll link us together.” “Got it. Toy aisle detour?” Mick pivoted without waiting for an answer. They knew the store layout—and the codes piped over the overhead speakers. A classmate who worked at a different Fred Meyer had clued them in on how to lift without getting caught. Mick and Eric rounded the Hot Wheels end cap and spotted Tim and David slipping out the garden exit. “Alright, we’re clear. Let’s move,” Eric said. They headed down the main aisle toward cold medicine. Mick spotted an empty Robitussin box ditched beside the half-off Thanksgiving decorations. “David didn’t hide his empty worth a damn,” Mick muttered out the side of his mouth. They picked up the pace. At the aisle, each grabbed their poison. With quick, practiced hands, they cracked open the boxes. Splitting in opposite directions, they chugged. The orange syrup hit Mick’s throat like cloying sandpaper. He shuddered, shoved the empty bottle back into its box, and stashed it behind a wall of saltines. As he turned the corner toward the front, he spotted Eric slipping his box behind a cereal display. They locked eyes—then walked briskly toward opposite exits. “Mr. and Mrs. Cash to Garden,” the speakers crackled overhead. Mick flung open the back door of the Volvo and slammed it shut. “Go! Go! Go! Eric’s heading for the garden exit—we had to split. I heard the security code just as I bailed.” “Shit! Okay.” Tim squeaked, fumbling the gear shift. “We’re fine,” Mick panted. “Look—over there.” He pointed toward a figure darting across the lot toward Halsey. “Drive. No headlights ‘til we’re clear,” Mick barked. He pointed east. “Hit that exit—we’ll swing around and grab Eric.” “What? Why?” Tim asked. “No headlights means no license plate lights. Trust me—just go.” The Volvo peeled out of the lot and turned down the first side street, headed toward where Eric was running. “There he is,” Mick said, pointing at a figure walking fast down the unlit sidewalk. Tim slow-rolled the car along the parking strip, braking as Eric jogged over and slid into the back seat next to Mick. “Hol-y shit, that was exciting!” Eric panted. “I heard the security call for my exit and bolted. Running with that much Robitussin in my stomach? Not a great start to the night.” As Eric settled into the backseat, Tim pulled away, heading toward the industrial part of downtown. Tim's hands worked the wheel and gear shift with an automatic ease he'd perfected since sophomore year, the twenty-minute drive into the city a reflex. A blur of taillights smeared past the windows. The steady hush of freeway noise competed with the trance pulse of pre-funk rave music that filled the cabin. On either side, the bends of the highway snaked black and gold toward the bridges ahead. Crossing the bridge at night was Mick’s favorite. He loved watching the city evolve—from blocks and grids into glowing towers, illuminated like jagged teeth. It was like floating into a peepshow of intercity motion: office lights winking, neon signs rippling across the river, headlights threading through the streets like veins. A blast of cold air jolted Mick back to the present. He hadn’t realized how fast his trip was coming on—quicker than usual. The lights outside were brighter now, bursting like tiny stars behind his eyelids. He rubbed his face, trying to stay anchored. The edges of his vision darkened, the world narrowing into a soft vignette. Sounds stretched and warped, like they were underwater or stuck in slow motion. The grin hit without warning—wide, stupid, unstoppable. “I need some air,” Tim muttered. “The streetlights… they’re doing weird things. Do you guys see the yellow-orange static?” “Nah, Tim. The lights are doing exactly what you need them to do,” Eric said, chuckling as he smacked Mick on the shoulder. “Mount up, your trip’s rolling.” “Thirty minutes, my ass! We need to park—quick.” Tim snapped. “The recorded message said Savier and Sixteenth. Follow the soundwaves to the warehouse,” Eric replied in a sing-song voice. “Ahh yeah, bitches. Shit’s ‘bout to get real—I got the tingles and numb face startin’.” Tim turned down a side street and parked. He sat frozen at the wheel, knuckles white, his gaze lost in a hundred-yard stare. "I am fucked," he breathed, a long, slow exhale of fear. "What the actual fuck is happening right now? I have never. Ever. Felt like this." David slowly turned to stare at Tim. “There are gummy bears crawling on your shoulder. Can I eat them?” Mick and Eric both stared at David’s wild eyes—then burst into uncontrollable laughter. Between gasping breaths, Eric sang, “Gummy Bears, bouncing here and there and everywhere…” They poured out of the car, swaying on sea legs, still humming the earworm Eric had planted. Mick immediately leaned against the rear quarter panel and lit a cigarette, blowing blue-white smoke into the air. Tim eased in next to him and whispered, his voice dry from cotton mouth, "Can I get a smoke?" Mick slowly turned and held out his lit cigarette. “You don’t smoke, ace.” From the other side of the car came the sound of running water and laughter. “David pissed all over himself,” Eric wheezed. “Put your dick away, dude.” Eric leaned over the roof of the car. “Guys, we need to write down where we parked. Now—before we’re all trippin’ balls. None of us wants to be wandering around later trying to remember.” “There are pens and napkins in the glove box. Grab ’em,” Tim said. Eric grabbed David by the shoulders and shifted him to lean against the rear of the car, clearing enough space to duck into the passenger seat. He rummaged through the glove box and came out with a pen and a handful of napkins. Standing, poised to write on a napkin, he glanced across the roof of the car. “Where are we?” “Downtown,” Mick muttered. “Like what street, dickwad?” Tim turned in a slow circle, then pointed. “Nineteenth and Thurman.” “I’m making one for each of us. We’ll probably lose them anyway.” ## Blackout Playlist: The Orb - "Fluffy Little Clouds" Mick reached across the roof and grabbed the napkin Eric flapped toward him. From behind came a sound—a rooster, sharp and hollow, calling once. He turned, astonished. It was still night, but the stars were strobing—pulsing like they were breathing. He blinked. From somewhere—nowhere—came a voice: _“What were the skies like when you were young…?”_ The car was gone. The city sounds, the pavement, the others—gone. Eric was sitting on a swing now, toes dragging soft arcs through the cedar chips. The cherry of a cigarette glowed amber in his hand. Mick sat too, though he didn’t remember how. The swing rocked gently beneath him, weightless. A breeze carried the faint smell of red and yellow. “Come on man, we gotta get to the club before we’re trippin’ balls and the bouncers don’t let us in.” Eric said through what sounded like fishtank. “Too late dude, I’m eyeballs deep. I can smell colors, like what.” Mick laughed. “Let’s go, I think I can hold it together to get in. You gotta talk though, my face is tingling.” The pounding in his chest yanked Mick back. They were standing in a line—massive bass vibrated his baggy jeans, the sound pulsing up from the concrete like a second heartbeat. Eric leaned in, eyes locked on Mick’s. “You good? I think we lost you back there.” Mick nodded, slow. “Yeah. Good. I’m… where are we?” “Oh—yeah, you’re good. Rave. Remember?” Eric’s voice was scattered, chopped apart by the 808s hammering from inside the warehouse. “We’re gonna get in… and sit you down.” They approached the entrance—noise vibrated the vinyl strip curtain acting like a door. Eric handed the doorman a twenty. Without a word, the man mimed a wrist twist, He stamped each of their forearms with a red balloon, the ink bleeding slightly across skin. He pushed the vinyl aside and chin-nodded them through. Entering, Eric grinned, his teeth glowed in the blacklight. “Let’s go,” he mouthed, poiting toward a bench seat. David crumbled onto the seat, followed by Mick. Tim stood off to the side, fixated on the red balloon stamp—it pulsed under the strobing lights like a warning. Eric was already moving, dancing like liquid across the concrete. He flowed toward a petite girl in fairy wings with a spray bottle—then he was gone. Mick leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The bench vibrated beneath him. The bass faded. The swing settled. Mick stood and began walking beside Eric. “I think I just saw a leprechaun,” he said, pointing toward a tree as they walked. “Huh. Y’know what? I think it was actually one of those fucking _No Whammie_ things from that game show. Crawling right up that tree.” “Oh. Hell. Yeah. You’re _in it_, my friend,” Eric giggled. “This is it. Ride the wave—this is gonna be awesome.” Mick tilted his head, squinting toward nothing. “Do you hear that?” he muttered. “It’s like… an echo in my brain. _Wa-da, wa-da… bee-doo, bee-doop… they were beautiful... the most beautiful skies in fact..._” He trailed off, blinking slowly. “It’s looping. In my head. Like a skipping record made of sunshine.” Mick touched his temple trying to press pause. “It’s coming from inside my head, but I swear it’s _outside_, too.” Eric snorted. “We listened to that on the way here, man. The Orb.” A rhythmic _tap, tap-tap, tap_ drummed on his forehead. Mick blinked and tried to focus—there was a face. Then came the lights. Strobing. Blue and green tracers burned behind his eyelids. Bass vibrated the tiny hairs in his ears. He leveled his head. His lap was warm. And heavy. Someone was straddling him. “You looked like you needed company,” a girl shouted in his ear. Slowly, he turned back to her and took in the scene. Just him. And the girl—all glitter and paint—straddling him, a tangle of glow sticks illuminating what little she was wearing.