The Road Home Read Online Free PDF

was having his breakfast with a big question mark in his fuzzy mind and thirty-six dollars left in his wallet. His reverie was interrupted by a strident voice.
    â€œCandyman, my main man, what’s happening?”
    Johnny groaned.
    â€œI heard you guys were trippin’ big time last night. You should have let me know. I’m always up for a good time!”
    The person Johnny was not too excited about seeing was short and swarthy with two days’ growth of beard and long, dirty hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had on a leather jacket with bikers’ colors on a vest over it. The patch on the back of the vest read, “The Death Heads” in red letters surrounding a grinning skull over crossed bones.
    â€œHey, Shub,” Johnny said. “It wasn’t really that big of a deal, more like a last-minute kind of get-together. We split some acid and smoked a little pot. Nothing great.”
    â€œWell, let me know next time,” Shub grumbled. “Mind if I join ya?”
    Noting that Shub had already slid into the chair across from him, Johnny acknowledged his new tablemate with a nod.
    â€œSay, Candyman, how you fixed for bread these days?” Shub asked.
    â€œFunny you should ask, Shub,” he replied. “I’m getting ready to split town, and I’m a little short.”
    â€œWell, I got a way for you to make a few hundred if you’re interested,” Shub said with a crooked grin.
    â€œWhat do I have to do?” Johnny asked suspiciously.
    â€œNot a whole lot, my man,” Shub said. “Just give me a ride to Pacifica and back. I have a transaction to make, and I can’t do it on my bike, if you know what I mean.”
    Johnny lowered his voice. “You doing a deal or something?”
    Shub answered in a whisper. “This is the big one, Candyman. The gold mine, the mother lode. I got some guys who want to buy a bunch of LSD, and I happen to have twenty grams.”
    â€œWhere did you get that much acid?” Johnny asked.
    Shub gave Johnny a conspiratorial wink. “Never you mind, my man. Are you in or not?”
    â€œOkay, I’m in, but I need a hundred up front, and I stay in the car while you do your business,” Johnny said. “What time do you need me?”
    â€œSeven o’clock tonight, corner of Fell and Stanyan.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” Johnny said.
    â€œCool,” Shub said as he pulled out a roll of cash and slipped Johnny five twenty-dollar bills. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I have a question.”
    â€œAsk away,” Johnny said.
    â€œHow come everybody calls you Candyman?”
    â€œMy real name is Jonathan Hershberger,” Johnny said. “When I first came to town I was tripping with some freaks who wanted to call me Hershey Bar. I didn’t particularly appreciate that, so I straightened them out. They decided to call me Candy Bar instead, then Candy, and then the Candyman. And that’s the story in a nutshell.”
    â€œHershberger, huh? Sounds like some kind of a weird sandwich. Is that Jewish?”
    â€œDon’t really know,” Johnny said. “I’m not exactly sure what it is—maybe German or something.”
    Shub started to get up from the table, and then Johnny found himself blurting out a question. “Say Shub, can I ask you something?”
    Shub paused and then slid back down in his seat. “What is it, my man?” he asked.
    Johnny paused. “Do you know anything about farms?”
    â€œFarms?”
    â€œYeah, farms. I’m not sure if it happened when I was tripping or after I went to sleep, but this morning when I woke up, I remembered something about farms and horses, and I don’t know exactly what was going on, but it was so real.”
    â€œYeah?”
    Johnny paused, and then it came out in a rush. “I was walking behind a team of horses, driving an old-fashioned plow, of all things. I’ve never even