The Damned Highway by Nick Mamatas Page A

and the flotsam and jetsam of America’s highways—hitchhikers like myself. If Smitty sees the same things I saw, if he reports Nixon squirming in shame and embarrassment while some writhing green-black tendril shoots a jet of semen over Kissinger’s face, then I’ll know the trip was real. If he doesn’t . . . well, the high is still an enjoyable one, and I’ll take the rest of the mushrooms eventually. Perhaps I’ll try to write while under their influence. There could be a new book in it.
    The only risk in dosing Smitty is that I can’t do it while he’s behind the wheel. Oh, I could, I suppose, but I need to make that flight. I can’t risk him missing our turn or wrecking the big rig. My only option is to wait until we arrive at the airport, and hope the psilocybin kicks in before I have to leave. Of course, before I can do any of that, I have to convince the trucker to be my guinea pig, so I start laying down some heavy patter. I tell him all about how natural it is, and the long tradition of medicinal and shamanic uses for mushrooms, and how it will give him an extra boost of energy for the long drive back home, and that there are no side effects or danger. No indeed. Mushrooms are a mild drug, milder than weed. Everybody knows that, don’t they? I trot out my best lies and my patented smile, the kind I use when I need to rob a bank or get into someone’s bed or secure an interview that no one else can get, and of course, it works, for my powers are great and varied and wondrous. “It’ll cut two-tenths out of every mile,” I tell him. An eyebrow jerks. “Girls like it. It’s like a first hug from a topless woman who likes a shy man.” By the time we pull up to a loading dock near the terminal, my new friend is ready to try it.
    â€œWhy not?” He turns toward me, his expression eager. “Ain’t nobody gonna be able to load me up for another hour anyway. Damn union workers don’t come in till later.”
    â€œWell then, this will be a great way to pass the time.”
    â€œAnd you’re sure I’ll be able to drive later?”
    â€œOh, absolutely. Have I ever lied to you, my friend?”
    â€œWell, I don’t really—”
    â€œNever mind that! You can trust me. I am not like the others.”
    I sweep my kit bag off the seat and rummage through it, producing the brown paper bag. I pull out a shroom and hand it to Smitty, who accepts it gingerly. He seems unsure.
    â€œAren’t you gonna take one, too?”
    â€œI already have. I took one earlier before I started hitchhiking. I’m still under its effects right now. And I’m fine. We had a nice, civilized conversation about John Fitzgerald Kennedy and underground comix, and I didn’t mention bats or lizard people once.”
    â€œIs that the kind of thing you normally do?”
    â€œOnly when I’m in Bat Country.”
    He visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping and face growing less taut. “Well, you seem okay. Don’t guess it will turn me into an axe murderer or anything.”
    â€œOf course not.” I glance at my watch. “Let’s go. Down the hatch. Airborne!”
    â€œAll the way!” He takes a tentative bite and scowls. “Ewww. It’s bitter.”
    â€œChew the whole thing and swallow. Try not to taste it. Just let it hit the back of your throat, rather than your tongue. There you go. That’s the way.”
    While he does as I’ve instructed, I search through my kit bag some more and produce my tape recorder. I test it, making sure the batteries are fresh. I once lost a great interview with Grace Slick because I was so stoned that I forgot to put batteries in the damn tape recorder. Satisfied that this won’t be the case now, I place the machine on the seat between us and press record.
    â€œWhat’s that for?” Smitty eyes the tape recorder like it’s a skinned