So I sees this quarter. So I seize this quarter. So I cease this quarter. So I cease to exist in order ...
I drive around the city. A hostile environment. I feel as if I am in constant danger. I see a Civic fly into traffic from a side street, making the turn at 45 mph ... at least. Impressive. It threatens to overcorrect and fly into a ditch, but manages to straighten out before passing four cars on a two lane street in a 35 mph zone, playing chicken with oncoming traffic before whipping back into its lane to run a red light, honking the whole way. Appropriately, the horn plays Freebird.
I see it speed off, out of sight, that rusted hunk of under-appreciated hurtling freedom. No, that is not what makes me feel I am in danger today. Not at all. That was uplifting. It gave me a sense of possibility, that in the heart of one driver at least there was a sense that life is play. Okay, maybe things got a little out of hand. But, damn, what an excellent way to say "I am." I feel an urge to pull to the side of the road, walk into the middle of the street, drop my pants, and publicly defecate. The feeling is a mixture of pride, indignation, and exultation.
I resist the impulse to pay homage to incivility and, instead, drive onward. I snake through side streets to the Southwest hills, no idea where I am. I see an old lady raking leaves in the lawn in front of a beautiful old Tudor. I stop to see if she knows the way to a decent hiking trail. I roll down my driver's-side window and say hello. The old woman straightens up and turns her head toward me. She's not an old woman at all. I'm not sure what the hell she is. She has white hair, Einstein-crazy, but a smooth-skinned face, luscious lips spread slightly in an alluring smile, a cute little button nose, and ... two dark caves instead of eyes. Empty sockets, lightless vacuums.
She opens and closes her lips. Again and again. Silence ... then a very light squeaking ... that grows louder ... and louder ... until it's a musical mingling of wind chimes, french horns, cellos, a bass, an electric guitar, and a tenor singing in Latin. The earth moves, an earthquake ... except it isn't. I interpret the experience as an earthquake, though. My vision is jagged and my body struggles to maintain its balance. The woman roils in every direction, the windows on the house shatter, branches of trees shake and creak, a crack opens in the road and runs up the driveway so far and wide the parked Mercedes tumbles into the earth and disappears from view. Seeing these events lead me to believe there is an earthquake even though I know the phenomena is not an earthquake.
In a matter of moments, though, everything calms. I sit in my car, unscathed. looking around then back at the woman. I see the same face, but now she has radiant green eyes and windswept bright orange hair. The day has been cloudy, but it's much lighter now. As I look to the sky, I see the last remnants of clouds dissipate. A uniformly light blue spreads between the tree tops, the sun hidden somewhere behind the trees giving the air a warmth that hasn't been felt in months. I look back at the woman ... or whatever she is.
She looks at me, purposefully, a mesmerizing glare. Her smile softens and the intensity in her eyes lessens. She walks over to my vehicle, extends her hand, and says, "Hi, Surprising. Thank you for coming by to pick me up."
"Excuse me?"
"Would you like some lemonade before we go?"
No. What I want to know is why you looked like an old woman raking leaves, then a young woman with sockets of nothingness for eyes, and now a pulsating expression of earth-shaking beauty with emerald green eyes.
"Stay put for a minute, okay?" She looks at me pleadingly, tilting her head to her right and raising her eyebrows just a little. Her lips part and she slowly blinks her eyes. As her eyelids open she fixes her gaze directly into mine. Her eyelids widen. The muscles in cheekbones pull back and the corners of her mouth distance themselves from one another as each makes progress toward the nearest ear.
I suppose I should be sucked in by this vixen, enthralled by her incredible smile, hypnotized by her eyes, melted by the tilt of her head, and lusting over the twists of her hips. Come on, I've seen horror movies. Waiting for her would be a dumb thing to do. I should drive away right now.
Unless doing so results in me hitting someone in the road, swerve to avoid an animal only to hit an oncoming car, or run off the side of the road down a ravine to die in an explosive, fiery death. So, really, what the hell? But she had eyes of death or ... something. There are other women in the world, other women giving away come-hither-and-fuck-me-glares. I can resist temptation. I tell myself to leave.
I sit still. She runs toward the house and looks back, smiling. She opens the door and flings herself inside. A minute or more passes. I listen to the radio. Rand Paul is hammering away on Social Security so I switch the channel and Rush Limbaugh is whining about immigrants so i switch the channel and hear the beginnings of a report on economic doom so I turn off the radio.
I should go. I put my CRV in gear, but as I do she comes bounding outside. She's changed her clothes. SHe's no longer wearing the frumpy navy blue hoodie or the baggy light blue sweatpants. Now she's dressed in tight-fitting jeans, pumps, and a skin-hugging long-sleeved stretchy something-or-other, violently green. Her hair is now white-blonde, ironed straight but with a slinky personality. She is bouncing toward my vehicle, hopping even, now a cartwheel followed by a backflip. She tosses her hair from side to side, leaps up and slides across the hood of the CRV, and glides off the other side. She smilingly opens the door and climbs inside. She is wearing white eye shadow, her cheeks have just a hint of color, and her lipstick is moist and glistening white with a subtle but perceptible winter-blue tint. She says, "Let's go."
Against my better judgment I say, "Uh, sure. Sheila, right?"
"And you're Surprising."
"No, but whatever."
"Yup. Whatever."
I put my foot on the gas and drive away from the house. "So, where are we going?" I ask.
"You were driving. How should I know?"
"I was stopping to ask where the nearest hiking path might be."
"Oh." She turns to me, grinning wildly. "I thought you stopped to hit on me, drive me off somewhere, fuck me, kill me, and chop up my body into little pieces. I thought I might be victim number 26. Or would it be 27?" I turn to look at her, feeling a mixture of shock, confusion, and horror. I can't imagine the look of my facial expression, but I feel the contraction and stretching of facial muscles I didn't even know I had. Sheila looked at me eagerly, excited to tell me more, "Either way, I wanted to freshen up. I just cut to the chase and eliminated all the chit-chat. Saves time. But I really did want to look nice for you before you kill me."
How does this happen to me? Why are there so many strange horny women with serial killer fetishes? I have to admit, though, she's the first I've met under such circumstances. Eyes of darkness then shape-shifting and age-transforming during what I believe was an earthquake but somehow know wasn't? I should be more frightened of her but she's so ... at ease in her excitement. She has an energy about her. I want her next to me. I don't care if she's death or if she really thinks I'm going to kill her.
Sheila asks, "Can we stop somewhere first?"
"Like I said, I don't know where I'm going so we can stop wherever you'd like."
"I think there's a convenience store or gas station down the hill if you make take the next left. Maybe a mile down the road. Just before the light."
"Okay."
I turn, drive down a windy road, and see it in short order I pull into the parking lot and wait as she runs inside. I see her walking up and down aisles, but I can't see what she is grabbing. She walks to the cash register, pays, and walks back outside with two bulging paper bags. She gets in the car and says, "Okay, let's go."
"Where?"
"You know the way."
"What did you buy?"
"Just go. I'll show you later."
I drive. Sheila reaches in her bag and grabs a rope of licorice. She offers me a bite. I decline. She bites off a stretch and chews. I drive up a winding residential street, now and then past views of downtown Portland framed by hillside trees and houses. Sheila speaks. "We're on the cusp of an age of open nihilism. There is going to be a growing widespread realization of the pointlessness of existence that will accompany the acknowledgment of the disconnect between the institutions of governance, legislation, and economics and the lives of individuals. What will happen when people come to understand that they've been voluntarily, if unwittingly, supporting authoritarianism? How will they live without the submission narratives they've believed represented autonomy? A dissonance could develop as public anarchy arises from private terror, but that will die out in moments after the smallest reaction from power resulting in the teeter-tottering between public fear and private helplessness."
"Whoa. That's disturbing."
"I know, but you'll figure something out. That's why you're here, Surprising!" Sheila laughs wildly as she puts up her feet on the dashboard. "I bought some last minute supplies before we see our friends. Here, guzzle a beer so you can loosen up. I know, you don't need it, but do it for me, huh baby?" I turn and she smiles pleadingly. "Here, I'll crack it open and hold for you."
Before I can say "No" Sheila is pouring a can of PBR down my throat. I can barely see the windy road in front of me, but I manage to finish the beer without crashing. My eyes water and I gasp before asking, "Did you say we're going to see our friends?" Is she mistaking me for someone else or have I forgotten who I am. Both seem possible.
"Yeah, our friends. You are so weird sometimes."
"Sheila?"
"Yeah?"
"When did we first meet?"
"Oh, come on, Surprising!" I look at her and she is looking ahead, pulling her legs down and squeezing them together. She's blushing. "You know how we met. Why do you always embarrass me like that?" She shakes her head about as if clearing the thoughts from her mind. "Never mind all that. Get us where we're going, okay. We'll have time to, uh, 'revisit' our first meeting later, babe."
"I hate to harp on this, but where are we going?"
"Why do you keep asking me that? Is this another one of your riddles? I don't get it. It's probably my felt. If I concentrate, focus my attention, I'll probably be able to figure out what you mean." She turned to me, her mouth wide and her eyes, well, surprised. "Oh my god! You're a genius! We all know you are, but, my god, Surprising, that is huge! Fuuuuck." I look at her and she is shaking her head, trembling, and whispering in gasps, "Fuck, fuck, fuck ..."
Well, that didn't help at all. I just asked a question. I guess I'll just drive. I pass over the St. John's bridge. Sheila doesn't seem to mind. She rolls down the window and sticks her feet out, resting them on the side mirror. She casually laughs. "I knew you knew where you were going. Nice try, Surprising." I look over at her. She twirls her hair with a finger while taking another bite from the licorice rope she holds in her other hand. Holy shit, her eyes are shallow blue now, like pools of water from the Cote d'Azur. She winks at me and says, "Damn, cowboy, you wanna ride me hard right now, dontcha?" Squealing laughter.
I turn away, watching the road. Fuck, man, she is fucking hot. I gotta keep cool, stay focused. I think I know where we're going. How do I know that? Fuck. "When did you get to be so uptight, Surprising? You're the most carefree motherfuckerever. Shit, you taught me how to let go, but now you're as uptight as a Puritan witch hunter." Sheila's voice softened to a whisper. "Or are you just fucking with me in a whole new way?" Maniacal laughter. "That's it, ain't it? Fuck, you are one crazy motherfucker, Surprising. I never know what to expect with you."
What to expect with me? This from a woman with constant hair and eye color changes. I'm afraid to look at her right now. What the fuck will she look like if I do? She may be an old woman again or, worse, look at me with those dark, empty eye sockets and suck my soul into those black holes. Why the fuck didn't I take off before she got in the car? Who the fuck is she? Who the fuck am I?
I drive onward. I know when and where to turn. How do I know where I'm going. I don't, really, but I'm going somewhere I know. I can feel it in my bones; they're driving right now. It sure as hell isn't me, whether I'm Michael or Surprising or someone else. Does it matter? I thought so, but maybe not.
I turn down a side road. We're way past St. John's, on Lombard, in the farthest reaches of north Portland, an industrial district, the ports, not far from where the Willamette flows into the Columbia River. I turn onto a side road, possibly a private road, and drive past several warehouses as I wind around streets and through parking lots. I pull up near a side door to a relatively smallish warehouse--smallish in this area, anyway. I stop and turn off the ignition. Sheila turns to me and asks, "Is this the place?" I shrug my shoulders. She gets out of the car, her hair now auburn, and walks to the side door. As I get out to follow her I notice she is wearing faded bell bottom jeans and a loose-fitting frilly white blouse. On her feet are sandals. I think, fuck, but nothing else. I'm well past the point of thinking this is weird. If anything, this feels right. I know this place even if I can't remember it. I know Sheila, too, particularly this incarnation of her. I don't remember how or why, but I also know it doesn't matter.
I step inside behind her. The warehouse is mostly dark. It takes half a minute to adjust to the light, but when I do I see half a dozen men, all of them well over six feet tall, burly, broad shoulders, athletic, no fat, tight-fitting t-shirts, wavy mid-length hair from the 1970s, bell bottom jeans and a mix of sandals and old-school tennis shoes. Sheila is hugging them, one by one, all of them in their 20s it seems, late 20s, maybe even early 30s. Each man, after being hugged by Sheila, walks over to shake my hand and slap my back. Not one of them says a word and they all look extremely serious. Not a smile on any of their faces, though it's not entirely possible to tell as each of them has bushy mustaches and beards. I put my hand to my face, an automatic response to scratch my chin while internally wondering what is happening. My hand meets thick hair. I run my hand over my cheeks and upper lip. I have a full beard, too. Huh. I don't think I did earlier, but I realize that doesn't matter, either. There is a greater purpose at stake and the seriousness of these silent introductions is warranted. Something big is going down and something even bigger will follow.
The last guy nods for me to follow as we all walk through the door of this small reception-like space into the larger warehouse. The space is much better lit, the ceilings high, maybe forty feet at the apex, and at least thirty where the walls and roof meet on either side of the A-framed warehouse. There are iron rafters above and there are lights spaced along the center rafter, enough of them to provide the necessary light to see that the warehouse isn't small at all, but perhaps two hundred feet long and at least fifty feet wide. I can't tell if there is equipment anywhere because the floor of the warehouse is packed with people, men and women, hundreds of them, maybe over a thousand. It's not possible to tell as I follow the last guy who shook my hand through the throng.
Men and women surround me on all sides, all of them parting to make way for us. Not one of them is smiling but they seem deferential. The men and women are of all heights, body types, hair colors, and races, but they are dressed as if from the 1970s and their hair styles are as well. Not one of them is bald or balding, all of them in their 20s or 30s as far as I can tell. Hell, I must be the old man of the place, but as I conscientiously rub my head I don't feel finely thinned hair but a lush mop of it. I'm not just walking, either, but strutting. As I look down I see corduroy bell bottoms and sandals on my feet, a button-down shirt with a wild brown and red design of swirls and dots, and a wide, flapping collar. The top three buttons are undone and my chest hair, suddenly much thicker, is bursting outward.
When I look forward again I realize I'm wearing aviator sunglasses. I lost track of the guy I had been following, but still the crowd parts for me until I am just feet from a four-foot high stage. Several men and women lift me up onto the stage. There is a microphone in the middle of the stage. Sheila is standing there, her hair now strawberry blonde with a thin headband holding it in place even as the length of it drops down to her ass. She's freckled now and, for the first time since I entered the warehouse, I see a smile, her smile. Her smile warms my heart; she is someone I know and know well. I can't remember a bit, but I know I have a special connection with her. She is my right hand and I ... I look out at the crowd. It stretches from the stage all the way to the back of the warehouse. There are portable toilets along the walls and I see men and women everywhere passing flasks between them. The smell of burning cannabis fills the air.
They are waiting for me. I look behind me and there is a banner reaching from one of the rafters serving as a backdrop on the stage. The banner is a rainbow of colors, not patterned but fragmented, shards of color cutting and piercing, bleeding and dripping. There are huge columns of speakers on either side of the stage and, as I turn, I see two stacks of speakers in the corners at the back of the warehouse. I turn back to Sheila and she motions for me to come to the microphone. Everyone is here to listen to me speak. They believe I have something important to tell them, that I know something they don't, that I know things no one else knows. I know they are right, but I can't remember what it is that I know that they don't or why it's so important. I think of Sheila's words on the drive over, words about nihilism, economics, politics, and dissonance. She believes I know how to avoid the oncoming nihilism, that I know things no one else does, and that's why I'm here. More importantly, why I sought out each and every one of the persons present. Not one of them knew one another before I introduced them to each other. This is my group, my movement. They look to me as their leader, but I know they will become leaders. I don't know what that means, though.
I step up to the microphone and the crowd becomes completely silent. I open my mouth and I hear a voice. It is not my voice; it doesn't sound like me. But the words are mine even though it is just now that I am remembering them, that I always knew them, that they are the answers. The voice was deep but also exceedingly from the 1970s, a post-hippy voice of utter confidence and powerful knowing. "You are here because you chose to allow me to find you. You may think you know why you are here, but you are wrong. I know. I know. This is not the time to tell you. Now is the time to prepare for the moment when i do. All the doors have been locked. In moments we will communally join together. There are two paper bags that the Queen Bee brought with her. Even as I speak the contents of those bags are being distributed among you. I will pause now and when I speak again ... I will tell you what to do."
I step away from the microphone and close my eyes to clear all thought. The tiny part of me that thinks of itself as Michael watches with confusion, wondering what will happen next. I overwhelm Michael with silence; he is not asleep but aware, no longer capable of thinking or speaking with language. He is simply aware and though his awareness has expanded beyond what it was, he is still excruciatingly limited. It matters not, though. Stillness follows.
Time stops until I put it in motion and speak into the microphone: "Put the tab on your tongue." I watch as everyone tilts their head bag and places a dot on their tongues. "Now do what comes naturally. In a few minutes I speak again." I turn to Sheila, the Queen Bee, and she places a tab on my tongue. Music flows from the speakers, soft at first before rising slowly, an instrumental. Sheila and I turn to look out across the crowd. They are hugging, kissing, dancing, singing, shouting, playing. I take Sheila's hand and we sit on the edge of the stage, watching, waiting. Not long from now everything will change ... not just within the warehouse, but all over the world.
To Be Continued
