Page 4 of High Society

“In the cave!” Walter replies in the baritone that has lost some of its rich timbre but is still reassuring to her ears. She thinks of rainy Saturday afternoons long ago, watching old movies with her grandfather in the den while Grandma made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.

Holly heads over to the third bedroom, which serves as her grandfather’s undersized office. She sticks her head inside to find her grandfather seated in his chair staring at the computer screen on the desk, which is crammed between filing cabinets and piles of other boxes. The walls are covered with framed black-and-white and Kodachrome portraits. Most of the faces belong to pioneers of the psychedelic movement. In one shot, a young Walter has his arm slung over the shoulder of a much older Albert Hofmann, the brilliant Swiss chemist and creator of LSD. In another, Walter is sandwiched between a laughing Timothy Leary and Robert Anton Wilson, two of the sixties’ most famous proponents of acid.

Holly wouldn’t have invested as much of her career in psychedelics were it not for her grandfather’s influence. But when she was a child, those faces lining the walls meant nothing to her. They were only relics from the sixties. Like psychedelics themselves. It wasn’t until she had her own catharsis under the influence of ayahuasca that she came to share her grandfather’s passion.

That experience made her a true believer. It also saved her life.

Walter spins his chair to face her. “Koala!” he says, using the same pet name as he has for the past thirty years, ever since the then-eight-year-old Holly scaled halfway up a eucalyptus tree in the backyard. He points a knobby finger to his screen. The magnified font only partially compensates for his macular degeneration. “Did you read this latest article out of New Zealand? On the need for more precise phenomenology in objectively assessing psychedelic-assisted psychotherapy?”

“It’s great to see you, too, Papa.” Holly laughs. At ninety, her grandfather is as single-minded as ever about his lifelong mission, despite how much the quest has cost him, professionally and personally. She steps over to him, wraps him in a hug, and kisses the top of his balding head.

“I read it, yes,” she says. “And I totally agree. Mainstream psychiatry will never accept the wildly impressive clinical results that we’re seeing with psychedelics until we start measuring outcomes using the same accepted scoring metrics. In other words, speaking their language.”

“Precisely!” He pats her arm affectionately. “I’ve been beating that drum for decades. Rigorous science! None of this airy-fairy bullshit.”

Holly thumbs to a photo on the wall. “Says Timothy Leary’s pal.”

“Tim was a self-aggrandizing prick,” Walter grunts. “He helped turn LSD into a party drug. Did more to set back the cause of serious psychedelic research than almost anyone. He knew better, too. Tim was once a legitimate academic.”

Holly chuckles. “Then how come his picture’s still up on your wall?”

“Bob’s in the photo, too. I always liked him. But enough about us dinosaurs.” Walter rolls his hand with a flourish. “I’m in the company of the future of psychedelic therapy.”

“As if!”

“How’s the book coming along?”

“Really, Papa? I just signed the book deal.”

“You’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot. You have the platform. And the credibility. That’s a rare combination, my darling.”

Holly clears a box off the only other chair in the room and drops down onto it. “It’s also a ton of pressure.”

“You’ve always thrived on that. Gold medal winner in your med school class. Chief psychiatric resident. Associate professor by the age of thirty-five.” Walter winks a watery eye. “Pressure is like eucalyptus leaves for you, Koala.”

“It might be too much this time,” Holly says. “Ever since Simon Lowry told his millions of Instagram followers that he was in therapy with me… I can’t keep up with the demand.”

“That busy, huh?” Walter asks with a pleased grin.

“I had to close my waiting list a couple of months ago. I’ve been bombarded with media requests. I even had to hire a publicist!”

Walter nods to the photo of himself with Leary. “Old Timothy must be spinning in his grave to see someone else get that kind of attention.”

“It’s too much, Papa. It feels like I’m under the microscope. But on the other hand, psychedelics are finally getting the serious attention they deserve. For the first time since Nixon derailed your career.” In 1970, with a sweep of his pen, the former president had banned LSD as a controlled substance, putting it in the same criminal class as heroin. Nixon did so largely out of his intense hatred for Leary, but the result was disastrous for psychedelic research and for the careers of serious academics who studied the drugs, especially Walter. “But if I screw this up now?”

“You won’t.” Walter’s hand trembles slightly as it wraps around her wrist. “Besides, who the hell is Simon Lowry, anyway? You want to talk real stars?”

She rolls her eyes. “Here we go…”

Holly has heard the story countless times. How in 1960, as a young post-doctorate researcher, Walter got a chance to intern under the legendary Dr. Mortimer Hartman. Despite being trained as a radiologist, Hartman performed group therapy in Beverly Hills with clients who were under the influence of LSD. He became the talk of Hollywood, especially after Cary Grant publicly acknowledged that he himself was a patient and a true believer.

“Such a kind man, Mr. Grant!” Walter says. “Not only a movie star, but a real gentleman. He always shook my hand and remembered me by name.”

“The Cary Grant story again? Really?”

“There are parallels to your current predicament,” Walter tsks. “Like you, Dr. Hartman was also overwhelmed with interest in his practice. Especially after Mr. Grant asked Good Housekeeping to share his story. You want to talk about an explosion in demand?”

“Fair enough.” Holly sighs. “Maybe I don’t have anything to complain about.”

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