After mom and I prayed, I went outside and set fire to the remaining 80 hits of acid I was selling. Goodbye Boulder, hello Jesus. Along with the drugs I torched were the more obviously unhelpful books I had on my shelf. Alistair Crowley’s Diary of a Drug Fiend was the first tome I gave the death sentence, then cast it into the rusty burn-barrel that perpetually smoldered outside the front door of our trailer.
I also threw some of the cassette tapes that I associated with the sort of power I had been pursuing over the past few years – the soundtrack of my fear. Black Sabbath’s Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and a few others followed Crowley into the white-hot heat of my little blaze.
I didn’t burn my stash of Cannabis. Up to this point in my life pot had been a comfort, never the cause of my fear or the many bad experiences I ran into as a spiritual mad scientist. If you had asked me that night, or even over the next couple weeks, I would say that pot was one of God’s best gifts to mankind.
It’s midnight and I’m the newest Christian on the planet. I wondered aloud into the black night: what’s next?
After consulting with Mom, we started down the snow covered trail towards our nearest neighbors, the Bakers. Between bare birch trees we could see the yellow glow of the lamp they left on through the night. The bakers were about to wake up to the sound of Steve’s need for help.