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More than thirty miles away, by the edge of the park, was Casa Del Zorro, a cottage-renting resort catering to the upper middle class. Here, Rama divined, was a good place to drop acid in a group. During the drive to Casa Del Zorro, a fast-food restaurant triggered a flashback of Rama giving Sal and me LSD and taking us to MacDonald's.
When he said this I had a flashback, a moment of memorial deja vu, when the present and the past are morphed together by one thought, when one idea from the past and the present exists in such a way as to connect the two times around it, forming a nexus between the two moments.
Anthony had a start of memory, so vivid that before his closed eyes there formed a picture, distinct as a flashback on a screen a spring night of thaw set out of time in a half-forgotten winter five years before another face, radiant, flower-like, upturned to lights as transforming as the stars
Rama and Sal looked at me disapprovingly. I couldn't have cared less. The memory of the MacDonald's trip made me smile. Later, as I approached Casa Del Zorro, I had a flashback of Rama giving me acid at his home in Malibu. I had been sitting on a rug in the living room. A Beatles record played. "How are you doing, kid?" he asked. "Not so good." I had been thinking about money.
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