The Worst Day Of My Life

How do I know it was the worst day

of my life? I'm not dead yet, and dying

certainly will be stressful. The answer

is that, at the time, I just knew...which

revelation was inspiring, to say the least.

Summer of '69, Chicago. I spent the first

month or so of that summer between my

sophomore and junior years in college

in my dad's law office trying to help out.

I couldn't stand it, and decided to live with

a high school friend in Chicago for the

remainder of the summer. He had a one 

room apartment and we shared the bed.

I had nothing to do, except read. I was 

reading Joyce's Ulysses at the time, 

which was part of the problem. Reading 

that tome, of which I understood nothing, 

exacerbated the claustrophobia. That and 

the heat, the constant noise of the city,

and being alone most of the time.

One afternoon, I decided to take LSD. I'd

discovered it and explored it that year at 

college. This time I did it because I was

bored...really the worst of reasons because

what LSD tends to do is heighten or intensify

whatever experience you're having. It started

to come on and I decided to take a bath.

I sat in the tepid water that sunny afternoon.

I realized that I had forgotten why I had 

decided to take a bath. I realized that the 

decision had been arbitrary....that any decision

I made seemed to be arbitrary...that I knew

nothing and whatever I did was random,

directionless, without purpose. Where I was,

that moment in Chicago, was not where 

I wanted to be, but only not where I didn't 

want to be. The feeling of being lost was

total. That's when I knew it was the worst day

of my life....that things could only get better.

It wasn't a hopeful thought. I knew it was true.

My friend came home and realized I was in a 

bad spot. He took me to a restaurant where I

burned my mouth on the pecan pie..which

didn't help. He decided to take me to a movie, 

hoping it would distract me. We went to an art 

cinema that was playing a double feature of

"No Exit", by Sartre, and "The Balcony", by 

Genet. Both movies were intense dramas, and

it might seem counterintuitive to take a guy

freaking out on acid to such movies, but the 

fascination of watching them did the trick for 

a while. After that we went to a burlesque 

theatre to watch some strippers and that 

proved to be rather hilarious. One stripper rubbed 

her crotch on the curtain and a wag shouted:

"You're going to have to burn that curtain!"

The ordeal ended with the sun coming up 

and me pissing against an  apartment building 

for what seemed to be an hour, loud sighs of 

relief while my friend urged me to hurry.