When I was sixteen growing up in Roanoke, my friends and I decided to attend a Ted Nugent concert at the Salem Civic Center. We showed up 45 minutes before Ted performed and smoked some really good weed. That was it, no alcohol, and no other drugs, just weed.
The show started and a few moments into the fifth song I noticed colorful musical notes flowing out of the speakers. These notes were floating through the air entering my ears. I tried to play it cool, just not notice these colorful notes, and instead acted like it was to be expected. After a while, despite my efforts, it was getting to be a bit much.
This girl beside me in the crowd calmly said, "He's eating the guitar!"
To me, he really was eating the guitar. In reality, to the amazement of most in the crowd, Ted Nugent was playing the guitar with his teeth.
Time sort of lost any importance to me. Five seconds ago, felt like ancient history.
I knew that something was wrong with me. It took forever to leave the show and walk to my car with my friends. Lights glowed, melted, changed colors, and it was really hard to focus, but somehow, I dropped my friends off and made it home safely.
I didn't sleep that night. My head was spinning wild with thoughts racing through the hallways of my mind. I had to get up early and report to work in the meat department at Winn Dixie grocery store and my mind was still foggy when I showed up.
I remember thinking that the weed we smoked at the concert must have had something in it, and somehow it had made me mentally challenged for the rest of my life. While at work, I just kept my head down and slowly did my job. I was worried I had fucked up my body. Was I ever going to get better?
My first task was to price and label T-bone steaks and display them on the meat counter. I did just that, but less than ten minutes later the manager burst through the doors holding the T-bone steaks in his arms.
"Simpson are you on drugs or something? You priced the steaks at 25 cents a pound and people are fighting over them!"
Now I really was worried that my mind no longer worked properly.
Someone pressed the meat buzzer needing assistance and I answer to find my friend Danita looking at me. She asked, "Are you alright?"
To which I responded, “No, I don't think I am! Something is wrong with me!”
She told me that this guy, Donny, dropped four hits of acid (enough for four people to trip) in my Dr. Pepper last night to see what would happen. She assured me that I'd soon be coming down from my first acid trip. I was so relieved to hear that, just knowing that I would be normal again soon.
I would never wish that experience on anyone and I never let my drinks out of my sight to this day.
Five years later, Donny was killed during a drug deal gone bad.