The Nevada City High School Reunion Mushroom Karma Trip

I was in an all-star reunion dream with a This Was Your Life cast of characters from my high school punk days. But first things first. Prior to that meetup, I went to attend a movie, where I was to meet with Martin Leon, and old friend from my cult days. 

I arrived at the movie theater late, however, and I only caught a brief glimpse of my friend dashing into one of the theaters in the large complex. By the time I managed to get there, the movies had all started and the doors were locked. The theater man, a Monopoly man looking fellow with a banker's air, sporting a monocle and pocket watch, admonished me for being late and told me I'd have to wait for the next showing.

While I was contemplating whether or not I wanted to comply, I met Cherie Holt in the hallway. She'd been similarly locked out. Cherie was a girl I dated briefly in high school. A tattooed, leather jacketed, fishnet wearing firey redhead, Cherie was the quintessential punk, goth before goth was a thing. We decided to abandon the theater and take a walk around the town. 

It was raining out, and I just happened to have a full wetsuit with me. I joked that I was going to put it on, but decided against it when I caught the look on Cherie's face. It told me without words that that would just not be cool. Instead, I wrapped it around my shoulders, as a preppie might sport a sweater, tying the arms in the front and letting the rest of it dangle like a cape down my back. As I walked, this proved to be decidedly less cool, as the legs of the wetsuit kept tripping me up, and I had to hike them up and try to tuck them into my pockets or down the back of my pants.

We went into a few stores, where I got some odd looks for my attire, and at some point, a switch was made: Cherie became Hope DeLeon. Hope was another of my punk rock girlfriends, my first actually, and by first, I mean in the way that counted. She was the first girl with whom I'd gone "all the way." It hadn't been the romantic relationship experience one might've hoped for, but it was exciting, rebellious and real. We met at a gig, and she came back with me to my friend Robbie Mitchell's basement where we did the deed on a couch, while Robbie and Matt Brown were passed out drunk on the bachelor pad's queen sized bed. 

Hope and I walked around in my dream, and as the rain began to clear up, I found that we were in Nevada City. I noticed some familiar looking mushrooms growing in planter beds alongside flowers, next to doorsteps, in the little dirt areas where trees were planted in cutout squares of sidewalk, everywhere, it seemed. Hope picked one that was growing up from a crack in the sidewalk. I contemplated picking one myself, but I was afraid of the looks that I might get from the residents who seemed to be eyeing me with suspicion. 

The trail of mushrooms led to a parking lot where a rather large hippie deadhead type guy had a popup business selling various household items in a yard sale fashion. I picked up some aluminum foil and a couple of jars of ketchup, but my eye was caught by the mother of all mushroom planters on a table near the end of the parking lot, where Giant Hippie hovered lovingly over his proprietary fungi. 

"Are these the kind of mushrooms I think they are?" I asked him dumbly. Of course they were, I thought, anyone could see that. They were already staining blue around the stem where someone had pinched them to test.

He didn't answer, so I asked him vaguely about prices. I didn't want to say the wrong thing and get myself kicked out, as used to happen in the 90s when one would use the word "bong" in a head shop. "Say 'water pipe' next time," they would inform you as they showed you to the door. There would literally be a sign on the back of the door on the way out saying, "Use of the word bong will result in your being ejected from the premises." 

He didn't answer my question about prices directly, but neither did he boot me from the parking lot. Instead he made a cryptic statement about Karma, and how everything depended on whether my intentions were pure. I assumed that this was why my friend Hope had gotten away with a plucking her solitary mushroom with impunity. She'd done it innocently enough and wasn't greedy.

Instead of trying my luck with the mushrooms, I decided to leave, taking the aluminum foil and ketchup with me without paying. This would later come back to haunt me, but for the moment, I felt as if I'd gotten away with something.

Next, I was in a food court, and I went inside a confectionery shop. I was browsing the merchandise, when I saw Heather Moran. Heather was one of the cool kids in my high school, a couple of years my senior, a punk chick whom I did not date, but someone who everyone looked up to as an alumni and pioneer of the early punk movement in conservative Orange County. She'd already cut the grooves that the rest of us settled into later. 

"Hey, Heather," I greeted her awkwardly. I wanted to give her a hug, but I didn't feel we were on those terms. 

She greeted me cordially but only with faint recognition, since we really hadn't been that close. I looked around the shop and saw various other characters from that era in my life. Kim Spencer was there, and I had a brief conversation with her. She pointed to her sister Karen, who waved at us. I'd unsuccessfully attempted to date both of them in high school (not at the same time, of course).

Outside, in the food court, I saw Mark Rebmann. He was another punk character with whom I'd attended Loara High School in Anaheim. We'd played in a band together, and he went on to become an accomplished guitarist, gigging around the scene during the years when I'd taken my hiatus into the cult. 

"Hey, Spider Munkey!" I called to him, using his least favorite nickname.

He came over and we embraced. By the way he lingered and swayed, I could tell he was flat-out drunk. He stared at my face and looked like he wanted to kiss me. I pulled back a little bit, but he was so inebriated that he fell forward, and we both wound up on the ground in a tangle. I got to my feet and then helped him up, and he stood there a bit unsteadily, gazing at me with a look of astonishment. 

"It's good to see you, Andy," he said breathless from the booze. "I can't...believe...how long it's been."

I promised to catch up with him later, but I had to go. The items I'd stolen from the hippie mushroom seller were making me feel a bit anxious. I needed to return them before some kind of karmic retribution befell me. I bid Mark farewell and walked down a narrow walkway toward the other side of town.

On one side of the walkway were apartment houses, built right up to the sidewalk, and on the other side was a flume, running between the sidewalk and the street. It was about four feet wide and didn't appear to be very deep. If one was so inclined, I suppose one could have jumped over it easily enough.

The sidewalk was wet, and it kept narrowing, to the point where I eventually wound up slipping and tumbling right into the cold water of the flume. It was deceptively deep and colder than I'd imagined. I wished I had put on the wetsuit earlier, alas, it was still wrapped uselessly around my neck.

Someone fished me out of the flume and set me back on my path toward the mushroom vendor. I soon woke up, never having returned the stolen items. Try as I might, I couldn't get back into the dream. The doors were locked, and the show was over.