Too much coffee. How could I do this to myself? I feel sick enough, without turning my guts into a churning caldron of caffeine.
Well, this is IT. (I'm starting to sound like Samuels.) The cathodes are all in place. The eye on the machine is glowing green.
``Ready David?'' Shawna's question is superfluous. She's already dabbing the alcohol on my arm, sliding the needle in.
``I'm terrified.'' That sounds dumb, considering my attitude up till now. Not that I haven't the highest respect for Edwin Samuels, but--Jesus, I'm tempted to reach over and pull out that IV. No. I've gone this far. Shawna's already got the sensory shields in place. Here IT goes!
IT. That's Dr. Samuels' clever little acronym for Intracerebral Therapy. He's a delightful guy, but he has a terrible weakness for puns. ``IT's no laughing matter.'' That was his favorite. He didn't think I took the dangers of IT seriously enough. Still has his doubts.
``IT's like a river,'' he told me. (He's fond of analogies too). ``A river with an infinite number of tributaries. Each stream is an individual psyche. Some wind through jungles, some cross deserts or tumble down mountains, some simply dissipate into swampy deltas. But they're all dangerous. At the best of times, it's easy to get swept away by a strong current, or find yourself trapped by steep canyon walls. Once lost in an alien terrain, you could well be stuck there permanently. And with our comatose patients, it's even worse. If you accept that coma is a form of mental suicide, then maybe you won't be caught by surprise when the stream takes a sharp turn and heads straight into the desert. It's the state of the psyche. These patients would love to evaporate in the hot desert sun. Poof! No more problems.'' Then, Samuels would waddle over to the liquor cabinet or create some other diversion before making his point. ``If you expect a joyride, forget it. You'd be as suicidal as the patient you're trying to help.''
I'm looking now. But I don't see any rivers. So much for analogies. Nothing seems to be happening. Nothing. That's a bit strange in itself. David. I'm the only reality in this universe. What am I supposed to be exploring? How do I get my bearings. There's no north, south, east or east. Or east. There. I've got to get a grip on myself. Can't lose track of the only ... only what? Oh, yeah. Name. It's coming back now. I am Eric, bound tightly into my horizontal womb. A womb of ether. It penetrates; it is almost a part of me. My nostrils are like wind tunnels, where the ether has coated the walls for slip-ease. The sandman chants as he dances into the distance, but I can't hear what he's saying.
I see lines moving like heartbeats. They have promised to become images and I am a subjugated voyeur.
Physical movement is a treason or a sacrilege. I could be a fixture; a statue of lampstand. I am motionless. Turn me on.
Click.
A billion bodies on a spherical stage writhe like paste white snakes. Desecration in Jello. The ritual quivers with mockery and fades. False start.
A room, choked full of people. They are dancing; holding hands and turning in a huge, slow circle. It is a cabaret or discotheque. I see faces running in and out of focus. Paint dribbles along the ruts in their masks. Faces splinter and greasepaint oozes from their lips.
I am Eric. And I see Eric, sitting. Gyrating bodies crash into his table and glasses smash and shatter on the cold tile floor. He tries to move, but his feet are stuck--must be the beer. It's like glue.
A fat man with a large, pink Band-Aid on his cheek walks up to the bar. ``I'd like two glasses of Elmer's Glue-All, please.''
The bartender replies, ``Will that be white or amber, sir?''
The smell of alcohol makes me salivate. I like to pour it on my wounds.
``There is beer, beer,
;nstrong as a wino's tears
;nin the store ... ''
I hear a voice asking if there is brain damage. I don't know, lady, but if I see some, I'll call. Ha-ha, I wish I could laugh.
A girl I once knew is sitting beside myself. Eric smiles and mumbles something, as she runs her hand down his leg and asks if he wants to take her home. My alter-ego declines. Stupid bastard.
Wait. She's hiding something. Eric grabs her arm and pulls it from under the table. In her hand is a syphilis brochure. Eric smiles knowingly and I finally understand my logic. I want to applaud, but I have no hands.
Is this what they mean by ``Theater of the Mind''? I wonder if I have to pay the actors.
The cabaret again. My best friend, Lorne, is sitting at a table with half a dozen of the brothers he doesn't have -- and who all look miraculously like him. They call my name and Eric walks over and sits down at their table. He listens. Lorne's obnoxiousness is multiplied by his images. They are having a loud argument which is turning into a brawl. Eric can't stand to watch Lorne destroy himself.
I'm glad I only have to experience my own perceptions. As Eric gets up and walks away from their table, I follow closely.
``Eric, meet Eric. Eric -- Eric.''
``Don't I know you from somewhere?''
Eric goes up on the stage and stands in the heat of the light; the people seethe like mealworms in a tomb. Fights are starting and ending at every table and all of the participants are being forced to leave. Eric sees his mother being hauled out on the arm of a muscular bouncer. He runs up and asks the man what she's done and the bouncer replies that she ripped the Band-Aid off a fat man's face and jammed a beer-soaked kleenex into his cut. He takes her away.
``Do they beat them up outside?'' I wonder. For a moment I am angry at myself for not having the courage to defend her, but then I remember what Mom always told me.
``Never cry over spilt milk, Eric'' she used to say.
``Okay, Mom.''
Eric is searching for his lover. He surveys the crowd. The people are swaying in some black psalmody. Eric is drawn in, submerged. The mass squeezes tighter and Eric sees his lover's face. She is hiding in the ambiguity of faces. Old lover, new lover -- a blur where only the sensuality remains. She sees him, and realizing the inevitability of their meeting, she presses forward to greet him. They embrace and she takes his hand and leads him outside.
As they pass the washroom, the door swings open and Eric catches a glimpse of the interior. A fat man is standing in front of a mirror, holding the leg of a corpse against his cheek. It must be a better pain killer than alcohol, Eric decides.
There are comets and meteors and novas in the cluttered vastness of the space. A cougar is waiting by the door. There is also a man pissing against the wall and someone lying on the ground, bleeding.
Eric and the girl caress one another. I am jealous, she is my lover. I want to touch her soft skin, feel the warm friction of her tongue against my lips. I can only watch.
The smell of flowers enshrouds me. Carnations? Gladiolas? I search for the source. Eric-with-the-girl is looking too.
While he was distracted, the girl escaped from his grasp. He swivels his head around slowly -- and spots her in the parking lot -- between cars. Laughing, she yells to him, ``Meet me.'' She is driving off in her McLaren Mark IV when Eric decides to follow.
``Meet her where?'' I ask myself.
I must know. I see Eric smiling as his Fiat bounces from the lot and onto the gravel road to town. He is going 110 -- 112 -- a high speed chase! Her tail-lights are out of sight. That mother is FAST! Eric's car hits a bump, skids into the ditch and back out again. Something is burning. He slams on the brake and the car slides to a precarious halt at the edge of a chasm. The Fiat backs up. Eric gets out and builds a ramp by kicking dirt into a pile and laying boards across it. He climbs back in and slams his heel into the accelerator. The ramp disintegrates beneath the clawing treads -- the machine churns helplessly into the void. It flips slowly as it plummets, swinging sideways just before it careens into the rocks at the bottom. Glass, gasoline and twisted metal are spewed in every direction.
Naked corpses stand in a circle around me.
``What do you want?'' I scream.
They answer in a collective voice, ``We are Death and we have been waiting for you.'' The voice quivers with mockery.
``I am only a child,'' I wail.
``You are a fetus.'' The voice replies.
``Let me live.'' I plead.
``Make us.'' The faces sneer.
I think for a moment, then say, ``Husha, husha.''
They all fall down.
Eric's unharmed body lies beside the wreckage. He gets up and walks away. He has no time for miracles; he is too preoccupied with the pursuit of happiness. I admire my fortitude.
Eric runs. With Herculean speed, he passes automobiles and villages. He upsets cyclists with the sheer force of his jet stream. He knows the police must be chasing him. He can see the red light flashing -- hear the siren. The dull crescent of city lights glows. There are dead-end signs ahead, checkered; yellow, black, yellow, black yellowblackyellowblackyellblyeblyb ... .
He stops. There is a building in the road. A white tower. The police must have given up. The commotion of their emergency has quieted.
People rush at Eric from the doorways. Hundreds of hands lift him and voices cheer. A hero's welcome. Eric beams proudly and talks about the Olympics.
Triumph is a vicarious experience. I am a second-hand hero.
The crowd thunders down the ramp and into the building. Inside -- the city. Narrow streets criss-cross symmetrically. A blur of patterns and voices. The light is dim and amber. A multitude of old derelicts lie prostrate on the sidewalks and within the traffic. There are whores in white silk dresses. There are pox-ridden faces and ugly cops. Silent guns are firing into the street and people are falling like dominoes -- white eyes staring into space. Blood is running in the gutters and there is blood on Eric's hands and feet -- his eyes are clouded with it. He sees his lover in a doorway, in a lace dress. There is a man clutching her, tearing at her clothes. She is screaming like the sirens were and Eric runs to help.
I am upset. I try to lash out, then realize I must let my other self do the fighting for me. I cannot lend him my energy, but I can give him moral support.
A Supporting Moral: If rapists were grown from rapeseeds, they could be pulled out by the roots.
I cheer on the sidelines as Eric carries the play.
I will do the same for myself some day.
Then the girl says, ``Not now.'' and pushes Eric away. I feel disorientated, lost and tired.
A wino offers Eric a bottle of Canadian Club and Eric lies down beside him on the street and says, ``Thank you, brother.''
``The man replies, ``Here comes another . . .''
``The whole scene is running over again. Cabaret ... girl ... syphilis ... Lorne ... mealworms and mother. Something has changed. This time -- I follow in a Volkswagen. What happened to the Fiat?
``Eric, what happened to the Fiat?''
After the accident, Eric pedals with Herculean speed. The flashing red light is attached to his skull, my mouth is the siren. When Eric lies down in the traffic, the bum says, ``Here it comes again.''
Again? It's happening again. I am Eric. Eric sits. Eric moves. Eric loves. High speed chase and accident. Another accident ... it must be a different one ... different lover ... different tower ... different street. It must. Eric steals an ambulance and lands like a kamikaze pilot in the street. The wino cracks Eric's head open with the bottle. And the contents jack in the box into Eric's lap. My lap.
Inside are:
--1) Confetti.
--2) Several computer cards (spindled and mutilated).
--3) Streamers (reading ``Happy New Year 1952'').
--4) A shredded blueprint.
We sift them through our fingers. Maybe we should call out for a doctor. Maybe we are a doctor. Is anybody here a doctor?
A fat man with a corpse on his shoulders trundles up. He is clutching a black bag.
The corpse looks down and says, ``We're a doctor. Where does it hurt?''
I wave my arms in a semi-circle.
The fat man pulls a bottle of Elmer's Glue-all from his bag.
The cadaver leans down and stares into my eyes, ``Don't I know you from somewhere?'' he asks.
I stumble back, shaking my head. Then look him in the sockets where his eyes used to be.
``Not me,'' I say, pointing. ``Him.'' Eric stares back -- cocks his head like a dog. Cocks his head like he doesn't know me from David.
There is a chorus of whisperers, chanting, ``Husha, husha.''
I look around me for the source and then look back at David. No. There is no David here but me.
Eric stands among the corpses.
Husha, husha.''
``Eric!'' I scream. ``It's okay! I am a doctor!''
``Husha, husha.'' The sound is a river.
I hold my hands out to him.
Eric smiles and moves deeper into the crowd.
I reach out as far as I can and feel cold flesh press against my arms. A hand slithers over my wrist. A hundred hands, gripping. Pulling me in.
``I don't belong here! I'm just looking for Eric.''
Bodies writhe like paste-white snakes and I am one with them. Now, against the blurring necroscape, a solitary warmth comes forth. Radiating. We touch.
``I need a guide!'' I hear myself shouting over the roar of the river.
``HUSHA, HUSHA.''
Eric thrusts an oar into my hand.
``Show me the way,'' I plead.
As he turns and walks away, I feel the river churning.
``HUSHA, HUSHA.''
``I can't make it alone. I need your help.''
Eric hesitates. Looks back.
The request still hangs in the air between us. He inspects it and finds it sincere. He cries and when I touch him, I'm relieved to feel the warmth, still radiating. When we walk together, I'm surprised to see how quickly we reach our destination. The exit is a hazy mist of light, stretching from horizon to horizon. Eric refuses to go any further. He shrinks away from the light, becoming less and less substantial.
``Wait! There's something I have to ask you. I'm coming back. Will you be here, to make sure I don't get lost again?''
His answer is like an echo of itself. Too distant ... too faint, to make it out. The light is getting stronger. It's featureless but welcoming. Shapes define themselves. Shawna, Dr. Samuels.
The crook of my left arm is throbbing. The wad of cotton covering it feels as insubstantial as everything in Eric's world. The needle is gone.
``Your arm will probably be bruised.'' Shawna's hand slides behind my head. I don't even have the strength to help her lift me into a sitting position. ``You were thrashing around so much, we were worried that you'd rip out the IV.''
My head hurts almost as much as my arm.
Dr. Samuels leans forward, beaming. ``IT went well.'' A statement rather than a question.
``How do you know?'' My voice sounds like it's coming from somewhere else.
Samuels steps aside. Motions at the patient in the other bed. I can't see Eric's face from here.
``He spoke.''
``Spoke? Out loud?''
``There's some other way?'' Samuels is grinning broadly. Shawna is tucking Eric's sheet under his chin. ``Just two words. But it's a start. Do you know what he meant?''
``What the hell did he say?''
``I'll wait.''
The leader of a very exclusive new-age cult faction, Mr.
Sproule was a leprechaun in a previous life. He believes that his
amorous attraction to geological formations may have started the
tradition of kissing the blarney stone.
For more stories by Dale Sproule, click here.
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