A public service message:

Should you take hallucinogens, please do not lose your wallet.

Because - as I can attest - it might just lead to you joining a cult.

In September of 1990 the Grateful Dead played six shows at Madison Square Garden in NYC. This just two months after Brent Mydland, their decade+ long keyboardist, overdosed into the great yonder, lending the music an air of mystical darkness. So no surprise, on the very first night, just as the lights dropped for the second set, I had the stark realization that my wallet too had gone yonder - having been picked or fallen from my droopy cargo shorts pocket.

And so a frantic search in darkness ensued, hampered by the splatter of colorful spotlights beaming from the stage. I scrambled like a crab across the beer-sticky floor, peered behind the grooves and shadows of seat backs and begged nearby concertgoers for help, lightly tugging at the sleeves of their mumus, muttering in hieroglyphics.

A few flickered lighters near the floor and then - sensing a fool lost like a ship at sea - they returned to the concert, leaving me alone to wallow in my panic. Gone was all of my cash and any personal identification; yet, mostly I was concerned about the tickets to the five remaining shows. I had no phone, no way to contact my friends and I was high, melting and stuck, like paint on a wall for 10,000 years.

As the show finished, I stumbled through the halls, searching with little structure or effective measures.

At this particular stage of the hallucinogenic journey, my mouth failed to produce sounds, and so the kind folks at lost and found just smirked to each other as I shadow-puppeted a map on the wall.

Kicked out of the venue, I zombie-shuffled for hours on the sidewalks outside of the Garden: Up 8th street, across 33rd, down 7th, across 31st in a box-trot of a lope. I believed I was tethered to the venue by a long rope; and I believed with enough turns my wallet would pop out of the roof, as if crisped bread from a top-loading toaster.

Of course it never appeared - and so the wallet continued to situate me on a journey to destinations unknown.

Around two AM, I dragged my sorry åss to the wide concrete steps of the Farley Building, a post office that faced the Garden. There I sat befuddled, cold and despondent, knees hunched to my chest amongst a handful of other lost souls.

The trip continued, with darkness that swirled in smears like black pinwheels of a Van Gogh; the scrape of a stuck wheel on a shopping cart moped along, slowly, as if carried on the back of a tortoise's shell.

And then, a bus, idling at the curb.

I must admit, I was unsure of its stake in reality.

It was oddly shaped: A double-decker in maroon and cream, humped as if a meet-up of multiple camels. Spilling from it was a radiant flow of light pouring through portholes and panoramic windows; its headsign breathed letters shaping the word 'Peacemaker' and warmth poured visually from its open door.

Its stairwell beckoned. Laughter stole from inside, and I wondered,

"is this where my wallet is asking me to go?"

I climbed desperately, and at the top of the stairs, was welcomed with open arms.

"You're amongst friends," they said. "This is where you were meant to arrive."

They offered orange juice, which tasted like the glow of the sun.

As the wee early hours crawled forward, a blur of hospitality and mind-games; snatches of being read to, of having my hand held, of singing songs in unison. Grins like cheshire cats, eyes crinkled at the edges as if furrows in plowed ground. I felt kindred spirits.

Here I belonged, the bus having arrived in my space, at my time.

Then, an altercation.

In the doorway, shouting, angry gestures, violent words. And I'm swept off my feet through madness, in a tug-of-war between yin and yang, between darkness and light. Suddenly, I was back on the stairs of the post office, cold and spun, as dawn cracked the skyline.

I considered this all a warp of my mind until years later, when I heard whispers of *the* dangerous, uniquely-shaped bus that hung around shows.

It served as a resource for the Twelve Tribes, a religious movement accused of child abuse and exploitation. Its members relinquish possessions, and leave behind their names; words like 'cult' and 'evil' are often associated with their reputation.

For weeks after the incident, I had hoped for a package which never arrived. I imagined a pleasant note from a Deadhead, admitting to absconding with the cash and tickets, but returning the wallet to its rightful place.

They did so because the wallet was on a cosmic journey; it was a totem that crossed dimensions, arriving to teach a lesson of being lost and then found.

The wallet sought wayward souls.

Say, just the type who might follow a jam band around the country.

Or maybe those who name their particular bus, Peacemaker, to ensnare the very same.