“What do you think he saw?" Damn--I regret the awed way I phrased that and the hushed voice I used. As if I think acid is a "religious" experience, a visionary thing.
"Himself," Josh says. "You always see your true self on acid. You just usually see more than you want to see. So it all seems disorted."
See what I mean? He's not your normal stoner. The guy should become a poet, a psychologist, a scientist.
We pull up near Greg's house and stare at it like it's a damn fortress.
"You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?" I ask.
"Nope," Josh says. "For a while, I thought maybe, yeah. But he's good now, he's off it, he's not hallucinating anymore."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"'Cuz you can die on LSD-"
"That's such anti-drug propaganda bullshit, Dan," Josh interrupts. "Nobody's ever died from an LSD overdose. Ever. As long as you keep people from doing stupid things while they're tripping, it's all good man, man. Why do you think I babysat him?" He reaches into the backseat and punches my shoulder. "LSD isn't your dad's smack. So stop worrying."
I scrunch down in the seat. How'd he know about that? "Right. What's the plan?"
"I'd ask him if ther was a key hidden under a rock," Josh says, "but he's not gonna be much help. Watch." He pokes Greg in the leg, prods him on the shoulder, grabs his cheeks and smushes them together, the way parents do to a baby, and says, " Ootchi googi Greggy, did ums have a good trippy? Did ums find out itty-bitty singies about oos-self zat oos didn't likeums?"
Yup... Greg was in his own little world...”
― J.L. Powers, The Confessional