THE FINAL TRIP

The first of the entourage to arrive at the Beverly Hills Hotel was Camilla Grace, wearing a short blue dress, fluffy blue slippers (bought at a garage sale for 10 cents) and a dog collar studded with flashing, battery-operated lights.

Next came Trudy Truelove, in a dress cut just low enough in the back so that the top of her extensive tattoo work could be seen. She also wore one of the flashing collars, as did Craig Inglis, whose tuxedo shirt was so ruffled it would have embarrassed a matador.

Half a dozen more twentysomethings emerged from cars near the front entrance of the fabledlandmark, all wearing the collars.

Security guards and bellmen descended quickly.

But when the uniformed personnel reached the group, it became clear they were heading not for the young people, but for the much older, painfully thin man in a wheelchair they were accompanying.

The man was dressed in a sport jacket and bow tie, and even though he was slightly slumped over, it could be clearly seen that he, too, wore a flashing dog collar.

“Dr. Leary, it is so nice to see you,” said bellman Kevin Brown, leaning down to gently grasp his hand. “It has been too long since you’ve come to see us.”

Timothy Leary, who by choice lived much of his controversial life in the public spotlight, had to face two deaths in his last days--one of his body, weakened by cancer, and the other of his celebrity.

His body succumbed early Friday morning. In late April he made his last public appearance.

That night, in addition to his young acolytes and caretakers, he was joined by two women who brought a sense of refinement to the scene: Laura Huxley, the widow of Aldous (for whom Leary supplied the LSD in 1963 for the novelist’s deathbed drug trip) in an elegant teal dress, and Barbara Fouch-Roseboro, fashion model, businesswoman and wife of former Dodger great John Roseboro, in a stunning black outfit.

It was a fitting group. Leary was almost as famous during his life for the variety of people gathered around him as for his statements and writings.

“I put together a kind of salon at my house,” Leary had said in an earlier interview. But Leary was probably at his most animated in a public forum.

He and his troops made their way into a banquet hall, where about 300 people were finishing dinner. The group would have been hard to miss anyway, but in the dimmed lights of the hall, it became apparent that Leary’s wheelchair was also outfitted with strings of flashing lights.

This was the 50th annual banquet and awards ceremony of the Los Angeles Advertising Women. Leary was not receiving the group’s Lulu award. His friend Susan Sarandon, who had been named outstanding humanitarian of the year, had asked Leary to pick up her award for her.

The fact that Leary was a last-minute substitution was apparent when he was wheeled up to the head table. Sitting across from him was Art Linkletter, the television host whose association with Leary goes back more than 25 years--even though the two have never spoken.

In 1968, Linkletter’s 20-year-old daughter, who’d had bad LSD experiences, jumped off a building to her death. Linkletter became an avid opponent of recreational drugs, and in speeches he often mentioned his disdain for Leary.

Linkletter, 83, stared wordlessly across the hotel table at Leary.

“It was such a shock,” he said later in an interview. “I thought it was one of the strangest moments of my life.”

Time had not mellowed his feelings.

“I was so glad to see him, because he is suffering so,” Linkletter said. “It was pretty good evidence about what happens to you when you live that kind of life.”

The two men did not talk. Of Linkletter, Leary would later only say, “He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t look at me.”

Shortly after his arrival, it was time for Leary to make the acceptance speech. To rousing applause, he was wheeled onto the stage, and with the help of Joey Cavella, one of his young employees, he stood up at the rostrum, holding onto its sides.

“I am very touched to be here, for many reasons,” he started, his voice surprisingly strong. “I realize I am lucky enough to be in the presence of two of my guests tonight. I’m talking about Laura Huxley and Barbara Fouch.”

More applause. But Leary could not stay focused.

“Sixty years is a long time. But I can remember back to the days of the ‘60s.”

He segued into women’s contributions to the culture, but his pauses became longer. He could not hide the fact that he had forgotten why he was there.

“Joey,” he called out. “What should I do now?”

The young man quickly moved to his side and whispered in his ear.

Leary switched to talking about Sarandon, but after a moment, he was once again calling for Cavella.

He finished with, “Susan, we miss you, you’re a long way away, but you are in our hearts tonight. Keep telling us what it is to be a human being.”

There was polite applause and embarrassed glances all around.

Leary and the entourage left, driving the short distance back to his rented home in Beverly Hills. At the house, a helper wheeled him into the bedroom, helped him change to more casual clothes and got him into bed.

Only a handful of people were in the room when Leary suddenly blurted out, “That was horrible, just horrible.”

An uncomfortable pause followed.

“In all these years, I’ve never been at a loss for words.”

Truelove, his personal assistant, put her hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t that bad, not as bad as you think.”

“All the thousands of times I’ve talked about my life,” Leary continued, shaking his head.

Dean Chamberlain, a friend hearing the conversation from the next room, quickly came in. “Tim, that was brilliant,” he said. “It was the biggest event of the night.”

Fouch-Roseboro also came in. She took Leary’s hand. “Everyone had to take a back seat to you tonight,” she said firmly.

More praise followed. Leary began to brighten a bit. He looked at Fouch-Roseboro and Huxley. “Well, I had my two girlfriends there for inspiration,” he said, rallying.

The tension in the room eased. One of his assistants gave Leary a balloon full of nitrous oxide--a drug that when inhaled gives a quick but short-lasting high--from a tank ever present by his bed.

Soon, Leary was feeling so much better that he and several others headed to Spago for a late dinner. “I’m having a good time tonight,” he said, several times. Old friends wandered over to greet him and the staff obviously knew him well.

The bartender did not charge for his drinks. When someone asked why, Leary matter-of-factly said, “I’m one of their oldest customers, and I’m dying.”

The evening seemed to have turned out well. But in the parking lot, there was one hint that Leary knew something had changed, that the public Timothy Leary had passed on.

For weeks, he had said goodbye to people with the words, “Stay in touch.” But on this night, as one by one his friends and associates embraced him in his wheelchair, his departing words were different.

“Stay close,” he said. “Stay close.”