Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I saw Jimmy Levin the day before he died. He was staying at his parent's house for a while to
get his head together and figure out some shit and maybe get his shit together and then maybe
get his trip together, you know. I was just back from San Francisco via Taos, and LA and hadn't
seen Jimmy since Boulder, when Stevie Getman got ruffled over balancing his books or some
shit.
Jimmy remembered. We laughed. He didn't know if Stevie had graduated summer school
yet. I was in town a few days and didn't know what I'd be up to but heard Jimmy was living at
his parents' house. I wondered what that deal was about, so I stopped by for a goof, to smoke a
joint and see what was up. I mostly wanted to see where Jimmy's wizardry had taken him and
how he'd maintained his leadership position on the cutting edge of radical drug experimenta-
tion while holing up in suburbia, like the Beaver but with no rules.
Jimmy's mother did her best not to look, sound and behave like June Cleaver but
failed—couldn't help it. She chirped cheerfully that Jimmy was “in his place,” the garage, con-
verted with a bed, a small fridge, a table and chair, so Jimmy would be comfy at home, not
confined.
I went on around. Slouching over a bowl of cereal, he slurped from a spoon an inch
equidistant from the cereal and his mouth, his head askew to make room for the cat, who
sipped the milk more daintily from the opposite side of the bowl with no spoon.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“Hey, man. Want some cereal?”
“Nah.”
“I'm into cereal. Do you realize? Cereal, man. It's too much.”
“I used to eat cereal.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I don't know. I might go back to Columbia tonight. Nothing going on here. You
got anything going on?”
“No, man. I heard you were going down to Florida to find your girlfriend.”
I laughed. “That's funny. I haven't heard that yet. I been thinking about it, but I don't know.
Maybe I was thinking out loud.”
“Yeah. Hey. I got an idea, man.” He sat up to check my reaction to breaking news, that Mr.
Jimmy had a new idea, which he considered dynamic, radically forward-thinking and pos-
sibly a few inches out front of the cutting edge. “I'm gonna hit some Tuinals.” He didn't ask
me if I wanted to try it with him, because I wasn't on his level; he knew that and most likely
didn't want to embarrass me with my predictable answer. It was cool; we understood that I'd
be welcome to hit some Tuinals with him, but it wasn't likely in the cards, because I never hit
anything, because needles wigged me, whether they were stuck in me or anyone. But it was
