Entry #572228, added on 03-29-08 @ 10:06 am EDT
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| Prologue to: "A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing" | Entry #572228 |
"A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing"
Prologue
To set the readers mind at ease from the onset, I do know for a fact, that Myles High whether he deserves it or not, is still alive … at least, for now.
I will briefly set down the circumstances which led to my continued association with this sordid, yet somehow likeable, character.
To fully comprehend what you are about to read you must first know, I make no claim to being a writer, my chosen field is psychology, the study of human nature.
It might be well at this time to give you some idea of who I am before I proceed. My name is Stephen Bouchard. I have made my home in Pittsboro, North Carolina, the state of my birth. But at the time of Myles, (for I don’t know any other way of putting it) I lived in California and worked as an experimental psychologist.
At that time I was only recently married to my wife Michelle. We now have three grown children, two girls and a boy.
Myles and I are first cousins, our mothers being sisters, both are now deceased. Only
fifteen days separate our births, Myles being the senior, though you would never guess.
As toddlers, then as wild little boys growing up, we were just normal cousins. As teenagers we truly became best friends, brothers. When Myles was in town for a visit at Grandma’s, or even better, for the summer, we were inseparable. We did everything together and shared everything we didn‘t fight over.
Our last few years together were spent in Chapel Hill, where I lived at the time, me in college and Myles … now that I think about it, I don’t recall what he was doing except “having fun”. Although we each acquired new friends we still saw each other quite frequently, we drank some and we smoked some, but that was the extent of my experimentation. Myles made it clear, however, that he was … experienced, as he put it. Though our ways diverged, our love and friendship continued.
At the time of my graduation from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill I was obliged to take the job offered me by the College in Marin and make my move to California. Myles was a full blown hippie by then and the proud owner of the only hippie boutique between Atlanta and Washington DC, so he claimed: The Smokin’ Mule, in downtown Chapel Hill.
That summer, the summer of ‘69, was the last time I’d laid eyes on Myles until that fateful day, there on Tamalpais Drive, almost two years later.
I’ll never forget that day, the day I caught sight of my friend once again, the day that ultimately, unbeknownst to me at the time, would change my life forever.
Having not seen my cousin in over a year and a half I didn’t recognize him until the very last second.
For the convenience of the reader I will briefly summarize the incident of which I speak.
My wife, Michelle, and I had enjoyed a late breakfast that Saturday morning in February and were planning to spend our afternoon in San Francisco, shopping.
After our usual weekend attempt at the game of tennis, we left Corta Medera and headed out for the redwood highway, on what was a beautiful California day, although a little cool for Michelle’s taste.
We were both in a cheerful mood, and as usual, Michelle was in charge of the conversation, I was in charge of the driving.
There, on Tamalpais Drive, I observed the usual motley collection of Hippie hitchhikers, begging for rides to the city. Then, just past Madera Boulevard, without warning, and to the utter dismay of Michelle, I swerved onto the dusty side of the road.
Before we’d finished sliding to a stop, “What on earth are you doing?” burst forth from her lips.
“That Hippie! … That was Myles … I think.”
“Who? … What Hippie?”
“Myles, my cousin Myles! … you know … from North Carolina!”
Before Michelle had had enough time to argue, a face appeared at her window.
My anxiety, though not wholly relieved, was diminished somewhat, when I did recognize the face staring at us through her window. Despite the dark sunglasses, it was indeed the face of my cousin looking every bit the California Hippie, long hair, beard, dirty, … but colorful.
Michelle stiffened and looked straight ahead, I held the button, and her electric window droned down.
A mere glance in my direction and I saw it in her eyes, … that look, … the one that let me know without question, We will discuss this, … later!
“Steve?” … the cocked head questioned, as it peered around Michelle.
“Myles?” … I said, shaking my head in utter disbelief.
“Far out … dude,” he affirmed, using his best California accent.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, meaning California.
“Goin’ to the City man.”
My eyes pleaded with Michelle‘s, her sympathetic expression gave me permission to invite him in.
“This is my cousin Myles.” I repeated to Michelle uneasily, after he‘d slid in and slammed the door firmly.
“We’ve not seen each other in almost two years.”
“Hello Myles, nice to meet you,” she said, somewhat sincerely, shifting in her seat and looking over her shoulder.
“This is my wife, Michelle,” I said proudly.
He reached for her hand, she cautiously shook his.
“Dude, … your ol’ lady‘s a fox!”
She gave Myles a modest smile. “Thank you,” she said.
I noticed a slight blush on her face.
Somewhat possessively, I wanted him to know, “We’ve been married a year.”
Tilting her head in my direction, Michelle said, clearly correcting me in front of my cousin.
“Not quite dear … not till next month … remember?”
“Oh … that’s right …dear!” I said.
Our eyes met for a second, we exchanged cool smiles.
I inclined my head slightly, and observed in my rear view mirror, Myles smiling chivalrously.
We took Myles where he wanted to go. The ride ended with an invitation for my cousin to … “call me,” … sometime in the future. I dealt him one of my cards, which he took suspiciously, stared at, looked curiously back in my direction and gave me what I can only describe as, … a little smirk, then he got the rest of the way out of my car and shut the door.
Without the benefit of a rearview mirror, Michelle fortunately didn’t get to share my anxiety when I observed Myles make an obscene gesture towards the vehicle behind us, after they’d beeped their horn at us a second time.
“He’s not so bad,” Michelle commented as we escaped from that part of San Francisco. “But … you two are nothing alike.”
“We used to be,” I lamented quietly for him.
And that … my friend is how I became acquainted with Myles High … once again … this time in California.
As you’ve no doubt already deduced, Myles did call, (three days later) and we began a new and singular relationship, one totally unanticipated. Looking back at that time, I wonder which of us benefited from it the most.
It didn’t take me long to recognize that Myles had carried his experimentation to the farthest extreme, and was now an accomplished Heroin addict. It was that which Michelle and I had to come to terms with. Ground rules were firmly established between ourselves and Myles. Once set, we were able to begin our association. I say association because, though the bond was still there, we really had very little in common with Myles, thank God, besides our love for one another. I do know Myles, childlike in so many respects, respected us, probably more than he did his own parents, and I sensed in Michelle that feminine need to fix Myles, he sensed it in her as well.
Being intrigued by the inner workings of the human mind, I found Myles, to state the obvious, quite an interesting and remarkable subject, delving into the inner mind of a sixties hippie-druggie, was truly, as they say, a Trip.
What came out of Myles’ head was more than anyone in their right mind could process at any given time. Such … such ideas … such detailed accounts. Myles had an uncanny ability to describe details and feelings, to remember thoughts. It became quite apparent that very little had escaped him. By the end of our first session, as I couldn’t help calling them, professional habit you know, I was completely dumbfounded. I, unlike Myles could hardly remember a thing he’d said. I acquired his guarded permission to use my tape recorder and begin recording our sessions, this time his ground rules applied. Had I been aware of the correct terminology back then, I would have jokingly labeled Myles tri-polar, at the very least.
Thirty five years have now passed since our reunion on the side of the road that winter day in California. I hate to say how many boxes of cassettes I‘ve amassed, well over a thousand I would guess, tapes, not boxes that is, all marked Myles ‘71, ‘72 and so forth, up to 1974, when he left. I still have the original Advent model 201 cassette tape recorder I used.
We still converse, but as you’ll see later, things changed dramatically for him in the spring of 1982.
What I have attempted to do, is tell his story for the benefit of others, those who might consider choosing the same path Myles chose.
As I said already, I’m no writer, but Myles is a story teller, all I’ve done is use my skills compiling the data. Myles was all over the place, sometimes it would take him two or three sessions to complete a story, hence, as you’ll soon see, the need for the tape recorder. Most of what transpires is either from our combined early recollections or his personal memoirs. Many times I could find no other way of communicating to you, except right off the tape recorder, hence the occasional quote.
At the time of our reunion we had a lot of catching up to do. But I chose to begin his story at a pivotal point in his career, a turning point in my opinion, and fill in the rest around it.
Myles was there, he got in on the ground floor, so to speak, and rode the elevator as high as he could … and as long as he could.
I apologize to the reader who may find it difficult at times, as I did, to follow the story. Myles seemed totally incapable of pursuing a straight forward course on any subject. But I assure you, as you continue to read, just as in a mystery novel, all your questions will be answered. In fact, now that I think about it, it was quite like a mystery novel to me. Especially as I attempted to put it in words and some semblance of order.
In setting down his tales, I tried to do it as though I had been there myself. Myles is nothing, if not matter-of -fact. With his retention and ability to remember details, though considering all the drugs and alcohol, I can‘t fathom how he does it, I felt myself as though I was there with him. This is where I have attempted to place you, the reader.
I will take you the way I traveled with him, step by step you shall accompany me, and see for yourself.
And thus Myles begins his story, with what I here, with much trepidation, attempt to reproduce in my own words.
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© Copyright 2008 Myles (UN: myles at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Myles has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
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