But on the way to cody’s my madness already began to manifest itself in a stranger way, another one of those signposts of something wrong I mentioned a ways back: I thought I saw a flying saucer in the sky over Los Gatos—From five miles away—I look and I see this thing flying along and mention it to Dave who takes one brief look and says “Ah it’s only the top of a radio tower”—It reminds me of the time I took a mescaline pill and thought an airplane was a flying saucer (a strange story this, a man has to be crazy to write it anyway).
But there's old Cody in the livingroom of his fine ranchito home sittin over his chess set pondering a problem and right by the fresh woodfire in the fireplace his wife’s set out because she knows I love fireplaces—She a good friend of mine too—The kids are sleeping in the back, it’s about eleven, and good old Cody shakes my hand again—Havent seen him for several years because mainly he’s just spent two years in San Quentin on a stupid charge of possession of marijuana—He was on his way to work on the railroad one night and was short on time and his driving license had been already revoked for speeding so he saw two bearded bluejeaned beatniks parked, asked them to trade a quick ride to work at the railroad station for two sticks of tea, they complied and arrested him—They were disguised policemen—For this great crime he spent two years in San Quentin in the same cell with a murderous gunman —His job was sweeping out the cotton mill room—I expect him to be all bitter and out of his head because of this but strangely and magnificently he’s become
