Visions
Of an Opium Joint in Dalton
And the Consequences of It—What it Led the Reporter to Do.
I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius, a deficiency of immagination has been imputed to me as a crime, the stubbornness of my opinion has rendered me unpopular and the reveries of fancy have been to me a dead letter.
For the sake of at least being accommodating, I sought out Wing Chop who runs a “hop joint”, in an out-of-the-way place, in order to “hit the pipe” and test the reputed effects of the narcotic. The panel entrance to the place has long since been condemned as an eye-sore, and is an innorcent and unsuspecting-looking spot for flaming posters and bill-board literature. I was admitted and negotiated with Chop for the proper amount and was soon put to sleep, but was disappointed in the results that I had anticipated. I attributed it to a disordered state of health. Instead of seeing beautiful flowers and picturesque scenery, I found myself dying.
The attending nurses and physicians gave me up. I saw myself leave my body and go into one that was incorruptible. Startled, I delegated to myself the task of restoring vigorous life to my former body. I employed artificial respiration and resorted to all the known methods of resuscitation, but soon saw I was loosing deal and that my quondam body must enter into a state of dissolution. I made a diagnosis of the head and found that in the transposition the base of the brain had been left. I consulted with the physicians, but we could arrive at no way of transferring the base and placing it with the small amount I retained. I became desperate. I could almost see the words, “I am dying,” burst from the lips of my former body. I determined to rescue the base of my brain at all hazards. I seized a hatchet, and making a dash at my head, I split it in twain. I saw the eyes roll
back and become glassy, the lips grew blue, the expression became rigid. I prized the remnant of my brain from the back half of the ghastly skull and made a dash out of the place, holding it in the palm of my hand. I tore off my right arm as I squeezed out. The physicians and nurses followed by Wing Chop gave rapid chase. I quickly gained Hamilton street at Denton & Lynn’s warehouse and caught an electric car for the Cherokee hotel at the top of Mt. Rachel, and as the rapid and smooth-going car wound round and round the mount, rising higher and higher at every complete circle, I caught glimpses now and then of my chasers as they dodged here and there, in and out. They were soon joined by a large company of Brownies. Hooks and crannies of the town were searched, chimney-tops and coffee-pots underwent a careful scrutiny. I put my brain-base in a cup and hid it under the stairway of the hotel. I strolled through its labrinth of corridors with tessellated floors, examining its sculptuary or plucking flowers from the conservatory. I noticed that not one of the thousand guests had a right arm—not even the proprietor or hired help. The grand orchestra were all minus this limb. It was a left-handed arrangement due to the city council passing an ordinance to the effect that visitors to the city should pay street tax unless they came with their right arm gone. The slamming of doors, the flinging back of blinds aroused me from my lethargy while I was watching the one-armed crowd play billiards. It was my pursuers, who had surrounded the hotel sureptitiously. I decamped by way of the cellar. I looked out upon the beautiful valley at the foot of peaceful old Rocky Face, crowned with precariously balanced crags precipitately piled.—
I viewed with ecstatic joy the beautiful Cohuttahs on the east and Dug Gap range on the west. But my pursuers were near at hand. I rushed rapidly down the sloping hill-side and again caught the fast-flying car. On we sped down the asphaltum-laid Thornton Avenue, out past dozens of lovely suburban villas in all styles of architecture.
In the meantime, the whole city had become alarmed. The report was current that a horrible murder had been committed. Everybody joined in the chase, the old and young, the lame and halt. My car reached the grand pavilion at Mineral Springs. I had five minutes to catch the up-going Dug Gap incline. I walked around the lake impatiently. The graceful swans nor the beds of blazing red Japonicas nor posts of orchids had any attraction for me. My car started its precipitous journey upwards. I reached the top. My eye caught waving corn down in the vista. The farms looked like soda crackers scattered here and there in the dense green of the timber.
I took the Dug Gap and Rocky Face Dummy and was soon whirling along the crest of the mountain, darting behind huge boulders, diving into short tunnels and spanning ravines. As we got opposite Dalton I saw from the car window that there was a commotion down in the city. The clock in the court house tower struck the hour ominously; brownies were perched upon the weather vane of the Public Library; three companies of infantry, two of light artillery and one of cavalry had been called out; the electric light on the cupola of the Female College had been lighted; a watchman, with field glasses,
was leaning against the flag staff of the Citizen granite building. The numerous verandahs of the beautiful summer hotel on Fort Hill were packed with people craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the hurrying throng down in the city.
All these scenes I viewed kaleidioscopically as I whirled along in the dummy. I reached the Rocky Face Point Hotel and found every available room occupied. The register showed 1400 visitors. The grove and lawn surrounding this mammoth caravansary was alive with people, enjoying the cool breezes as they lazily lolled about on the settees and divans, or swung leisurely in hammocks. The divinest of orchestral music seemed to fill the rarified air, and the very clouds up there seemed to catch the sweet strains and to bear them away on their snowy wings.
I began to feel stupid—I felt wearied. I had taxed what little brain I had too much. I had left the base of it back at the Cherokee on Mt. Rachel—my eyelids were heavy. I sought a clover mat under a spruce pine, and threw myself down. The elfs and mountain sprites knitted for me a pillow of wild flowers. The spiders wove a net over my face to protect me from the buzzing insects. The sweet strains lulled me into a beatific vision. I slept.
It was late when I awoke. The craving for the pipe grew stronger. I wanted more. It crept on me. I bit my lips until they bled. I clinched my fingers until the nails tore the flesh. I got up and began to walk—faster, faster, faster! I cried out aloud. I ran—as no mortal ever ran before—back into the mountains across the valleys and back again.
I knew I could get no opium until morning—if I lived until then. I was cured. Oh God! what a fight it was. I don’t know where I ran to, or how far—I had lost all reckoning. When they picked me up I was 'way out in the country—my hair was white—I won the fight and I’ve never wanted the pipe since. But I am still looking for the realization of my dreams. Oh! if it could only be so.
From the North Georgia Citizen of July 06, 1893.