Chapter 3 — Shrooms?
And thus begins Chapter Three.
Now, children.
There we were.
Kodaikanal.
The mountains.
The mist.
The cold.
The beautiful unfamiliar world.
And one rather important problem.
The council leans forward.
How exactly does one acquire mushrooms?
Children.
Goa had been easy.
Kosmo knew people.
Kosmo knew places.
Kosmo knew tea shops where apparently one could purchase sacred geometry between sips.
Kodaikanal?
Nothing.
No inside man.
No local contact.
No mysterious friend of a friend.
Kosmo was not our guide here.
He was just another idiot seeking fungus.
The council nods.
The five man party had entered unfamiliar territory.
So naturally,
we developed a sophisticated acquisition strategy.
The council prepares notes.
Paul lowered the window.
Looked outside.
Saw the first sufficiently shady looking man.
And asked:
“Shrooms?”
The council pauses.
That’s it?
That’s it.
Not:
“Hello, good sir, do you happen to know where one might acquire mushrooms?”
Not even:
“Do you have shrooms?”
Children.
Just
“Shrooms?”
The council considers.
Efficient.
The man looked at Paul.
Nodded.
“Yes.
Shrooms.”
The council erupts.
CONTACT ESTABLISHED.
Carlos was thrilled.
Or perhaps that was me.
Difficult distinction.
Now.
The competent people began discussing price.
The council looks toward Paul.
Kosmo.
Mith.
Wing.
Numbers.
Quantities.
Whatever details responsible travellers, apparently negotiate.
And me?
Children.
Dog.
The council collapses.
There was a dog.
Protocol activated.
The mushroom quest temporarily lost priority.
I crouched.
Dog approached.
Friendship established.
Somewhere behind me,
money changed hands.
Someone made a gesture.
Follow me.
And the party began walking.
The council looks toward me.
I noticed everyone leaving.
Looked at the dog.
Looked at my friends.
Children.
Mushrooms were important.
But survival instincts
primitive though they were
still informed me that being abandoned in an unfamiliar hill town because I had chosen a dog over my entire travelling party
might create logistical complications.
The council nods.
So I followed.
Barely.
Now.
Present Nuo travels alone.
Present Nuo has boarded trains with almost no plan,
wandered unfamiliar towns,
followed dogs,
followed strangers,
gotten lost,
found himself again.
But this version?
Children.
He did not yet know he could survive without the pack.
The solo wanderer had not been discovered.
If Paul disappeared around a corner,
there was a measurable chance I would simply cease functioning.
The council laughs.
And so
we followed the mushroom man.
Into a forest.
The council becomes interested.
Now,
some people move through forest terrain gracefully.
Kosmo.
Obviously.
Paul.
Competent.
Wing.
Mith.
Alive and functional.
Then there was me.
The council watches.
Children.
I was essentially an asthma attack clutching a cigarette.
The council erupts.
Trees.
Inclines.
Roots.
Uneven ground.
And somewhere in the middle of all that,
my lungs filing formal complaints.
Yet we continued.
Because mushrooms.
The council nods solemnly.
Motivation is powerful.
Then we began noticing them.
Mushrooms.
Everywhere.
The council leans forward.
At the bases of trees.
Near roots.
Poking through damp earth.
Bright ones.
Colorful ones.
Some with patterns.
Some looking so aggressively psychedelic that they may as well have been wearing little signs saying:
I alter consciousness.
Children.
We knew absolutely nothing about identifying magic mushrooms.
Nothing.
Zero.
The council becomes concerned.
So naturally,
we looked at these bright strange fungi
and thought:
These must be them.
The council buries its face.
They looked magical.
Therefore,
magic mushrooms.
A flawless scientific framework.
The man pointed.
Toward one near a root.
Gesture.
Take it.
Then another.
Then another.
And the system began.
Pluck.
Eat.
Follow.
The council stares.
Children.
I would like Present Nuo to formally acknowledge that consuming unidentified wild mushrooms because a stranger gestured at them
was an extraordinarily stupid thing to do.
The council applauds.
Historical clarity.
Old Nuo did not possess this clarity.
Old Nuo possessed:
Oooo.
Mushroom.
The council sighs.
So we scattered around the trees.
Every time the man pointed,
someone moved.
Picked.
Consumed.
Kept walking.
Again.
Again.
Again.
For what felt like forever.
Perhaps an hour.
The archive is unreliable.
Remember,
time was measured in joints.
The council nods.
And I was dying.
Not actually.
Probably.
But children.
My lungs believed strongly in the possibility.
Everyone else seemed capable of walking through the forest like humans.
I staggered behind,
sweating,
breathing like a broken accordion,
occasionally stopping to reconsider every cigarette I had ever loved.
The council writes:
CARDIOVASCULAR SYSTEM BETRAYED.
Eventually,
somehow,
the forest path curved.
And we emerged
near Carlos.
The council pauses.
Back where you started?
Essentially.
The man had taken us on a great fungal pilgrimage
only to return us to the vehicles.
Children.
At the time,
this did not feel suspicious enough.
We paid him whatever amount had been agreed upon.
How much?
The council looks toward me.
I don’t know.
Of course I don’t.
Why would Royal Nuo concern himself with accounting?
Money moved.
Deal concluded.
The man smiled.
Then offered his final blessing.
“Trip hard.”
The council grows solemn.
And walked away.
Into the sunrise.
Children.
A mystic.
A guide.
A fungal prophet.
A scammer.
The council pauses.
We did not know yet.
Because mushrooms take time.
So we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The five of us stood around Carlos and the Duke,
monitoring our own brains like malfunctioning diagnostic equipment.
Anything?
No.
Maybe the trees looked different?
No.
Maybe colors?
No.
Maybe
nothing.
The council waits.
Eventually,
someone asked the forbidden question.
I don’t remember who.
“Y’all feel anything?”
Silence.
We looked at each other.
The council leans forward.
Paul?
Nothing.
Kosmo?
Nothing.
Mith?
Nothing.
Wing?
Nothing.
Me?
Children.
Not even a polite ripple.
The council goes quiet.
And collectively,
the realization arrived.
We had been scammed.
The council erupts.
THE GREAT MUSHROOM BETRAYAL.
Children.
We weren’t even properly angry.
That’s the embarrassing part.
We were sad.
Deeply.
Spiritually.
Because the issue wasn’t really the money.
The issue was
we had travelled all the way to Kodaikanal
for mushrooms.
And had consumed what was apparently the botanical equivalent of decorative garnish.
The council mourns.
Now.
We still had money.
Not much.
But enough.
The bigger problem was daylight.
Children.
This was not a week long expedition.
Not three days.
Not even two.
Kodaikanal was a twenty four hour campaign.
One day.
Arrive.
Acquire mushrooms.
Experience mushrooms.
Leave.
The council checks schedule.
Aggressive.
Very.
And we had already donated a valuable portion of that day
to Forest Man and his collection of useless colorful fungus.
So we cut our losses.
No revenge.
No dramatic hunt.
No demands for justice.
Children.
Priorities.
There were real mushrooms somewhere in this town.
And we intended to find them.
The council nods.
Then
another man approached.
Less shady.
The council becomes suspicious.
Which is not exactly a reliable scientific category,
but apparently that was the full extent of our risk assessment.
He offered mushrooms.
The council stares.
Immediately?
Immediately.
Children.
This could very easily have been Scam Two.
The sequel.
Same stupidity.
New cast.
We had absolutely no evidence this man was legitimate.
None.
And yet
we trusted him.
The council sighs.
Why?
Because hope is a powerful narcotic.
He produced the mushrooms.
And children
they looked terrible.
The council pauses.
Terrible?
Bland.
Dull.
Grayish.
Ugly little things.
No bright colors.
No psychedelic markings.
No enchanted forest aesthetic.
Just sad looking fungi.
The council grows interested.
And somewhere inside me,
a sacred law was born.
If the mushroom looks trippy,
it probably isn’t the trippy one.
The council writes this down,
then crosses it out.
Children.
Not scientific advice.
Merely the conclusion reached by five idiots after one successful scam.
History,
not botany.
Now.
The man gave us what we’d actually come for.
And the five of us gathered.
Most of the party took what we’d been told was the ordinary amount.
Paul and I?
The council turns slowly.
More.
Naturally.
Why?
Children.
Because apparently basic package tiers were not enough.
We wanted premium.
Deluxe.
No advertisements.
Extra features.
Psychedelic Plus.
The council groans.
Old Nuo treated altered consciousness like a streaming subscription.
Would you like Standard?
No.
Upgrade.
Now.
There remained one problem.
Taste.
Children.
Mushrooms taste
rancid.
The council winces.
Earthy would be polite.
Natural would be polite.
No.
This was the flavor of nature filing for bankruptcy.
Most people in the party combined them with something sweet to make the experience less offensive.
The council nods.
Reasonable.
Me?
I looked at the entire miserable collection in my hand.
Children.
I had a different philosophy.
Efficiency.
I compressed it together.
One disgusting little fungal catastrophe.
And committed.
The council becomes concerned.
Chew.
Regret.
Chew.
Regret harder.
Continue chewing.
Consider surrender.
Remember pride.
Chew.
Children.
It felt eternal.
Every movement of my jaw produced another argument for abandoning the mission.
But eventually
swallow.
The council cheers.
Fungi consumed.
I sat there afterward
wearing the expression of a man who had personally lost a war against flavor.
Then
waiting.
Again.
The council sighs.
Children.
This was the difficult part.
Because Scam One had already damaged trust.
Five minutes?
Nothing.
Ten?
Nothing.
Longer?
Still uncertain.
The council grows suspicious.
We began looking at each other.
Again.
Maybe we had been scammed twice.
The council gasps.
Imagine.
Travel all the way to Kodaikanal.
Get scammed by mushrooms.
Find another dealer.
Get scammed by mushrooms again.
Return home having achieved nothing except indigestion and personal growth.
The council shakes its head.
Unacceptable.
So we waited.
Carlos nearby.
The Duke beside him.
Orange Sewage resting patiently on the floor,
awaiting its future destiny.
Five idiots watching each other for signs of enlightenment.
The town around us continuing like nothing important was happening.
Then
something shifted.
The council grows quiet.
Not enough to identify.
Not yet.
A little feeling.
A subtle wrongness.
Or perhaps
rightness.
The air seemed different.
The trees looked slightly more deliberate.
Edges sharpened.
Then softened.
Children.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
We still weren’t certain.
The second scam remained theoretically possible.
So we continued waiting.
And waiting.
Completely unaware
that the waiting was almost over.
The council leans forward.
Because children
we had not been scammed twice.
Not remotely.
The ugly little mushrooms were real.
Very real.
And while the five of us stood there questioning whether anything would happen,
chemistry was quietly unlocking the door.
The council grows still.
Goa had shown me acid.
How it could stretch light.
Bend geometry.
Turn music into architecture.
But mushrooms?
Children.
Mushrooms had their own language.
And we were seconds away from becoming fluent.
Thus concludes Chapter Three.
The No Inside Man Problem.
The Forest Scam.
The Rule Of Ugly Mushrooms.
The Psychedelic Plus Subscription.
And the longest waiting screen of the expedition.
Children.
We came for mushrooms.
We found mushrooms.
Then discovered they were not mushrooms.
Then found uglier mushrooms.
Consumed them.
Sat beside Carlos wondering whether we’d been fooled twice.
And somewhere beneath all that uncertainty
reality had already begun to loosen.
We simply hadn’t noticed yet.
Oh,
but we would.
