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Paper Airplane On the Moon Chapter Three
Extemporanea, A Medley
"As child'en, they was forced into they present religious roles." Cole said this off-handedly at the conclusion of the bullshit story he'd concocted about The Twiggy Twins (as they were called) and Sikes' future. He sat across from me in the dining room and stared up at the ceiling. We were alone. It took me a moment to realize his tone had changed. He was serious. "Who?" He rolled his eyes. Sighed. "Now who is it thta's walkin' round here tellin' folks they names is Satan, Akua, and Jesus-Elvis? The files, Mickey." "Oh." The gravity and implications that had momentarily escaped me began gripping my attention. "By whom?" I realized, one notch above an unconscious level, that I would need background for the characters I would be "writing" about. On a more selfish level: I wanted more information about Akua. "That's all you gets," Cole said. "Cept this." He winked at me. "When you go into group tell the doctor you know the secret to darkness." "Darkness?" "Night time, ding-a-ling." "I do know the secret," I said, "I mean, it's no secret. The section of the planet we're on turns away from the sun." Cole snickered and shook his head. His face became almost comically serious. "Black air," he said, nodding slowly. "Tell the man that." He dematerialized again. I sat in the dining room pondering the information he'd offered. The black air? He was jerking my chain. Having more fun. Fancies himself some kind of Voodoo Witch Doctor sometimes. Or else it's his way of making me say something that will keep me in here a while longer. And there'll be a reason for that, too. My mind staggered back to what he'd said about Akua, Jesus-Elvis and Satan. A little information is a dangerous thing. As that thought rang in my head, from the periphery of my vision, I noticed something on the floor, its corner sticking out from beneath the sofa. Something white. Reluctantly I reached down and pulled it from its hiding place. Another card! The Ace of Cups. Five streams of water spring from a cup and fall into a pond. I searched my memory for its meaning. Something to do with a beginning of good things. A breakthrough. I looked at the card a moment, then bent, and pushed it back under the sofa. "Not for me," I said. "You got the wrong . . . guy. I'm not getting involved."
Diversions/From the Manufacturer of Madness
Half-hidden Tarot cards offering a promising future were small ransom for the information Cole had supplied regarding Satan, Akua, and Jesus-Elvis. In spite of not wanting to think about them, a scene formed in my mind, its ingredients: religious sects, haunting ceremonies performed by mean-hearted religious zealots. Small doe-eyed children forced into the roles of pseudo-Messiahs and devils. Blood sacrifices. The scene grew uglier. A morning squall blew up as I sat looking out the window. It inspired an even darker mood as my imagination played tag with various scenarios. Cole was pulling my yang. That was the thought that I finally clung to as time for group approached. I didn't want to go into group thinking what I was thinking. I was already drawn too closely to them, in spite of what I thought I saw last night in the room, with Satan and Jesus-Elvis. I didnMt need the accompanying tug of sympathy. If anything, I needed something revolting, disgusting, something to put some distance between us. Especially from Akua. "Yeah, you're bullshitting me, Cole, old buddy." Outside, the squall transformed into a downpour. That famous Hilo rain.
The Role of the Dedicated Absurdist
"The future is not always a logical extension of the past." I said this to myself as we sat down for group, trying to invalidate what Cole had reported -- this amid the sound of chairs being dragged across carpet, throats being cleared, hands folded across one another -- Main Street, Crazyville, USA. The rain beyond the window had blown past. The sun peeked through thinning clouds and below, through the large window, I could see the roof of another wing of the hospital. Everyone was here, even Satan, although he appeared pale and listless, the aftereffects of his seizure, I assumed. He'd changed from the suit he was wearing this morning, the one he'd urinated in, and now was simply adorned in a pair of green hospital scrubs. Jesus-Elvis sat beside me; on the other side: Sikes, then Samuel, Malina and Jolei, Akua (who I was trying not to make eye contact with) Darlene, one of the two Dead Batteries, Satan, the other Dead Battery, and an empty chair, the therapist's, I imagined. Group therapy was old hat to me. I've been in countless institutions over the years. In order to detach myself from the proceedings and distance myself from the participants, three of them in particular, I grasped, not for the romantic view of humanity's possibilities, or even the entertainment potential of the goings-on, but for something to separate us. But the therapist walked in and interrupted my escape attempt. He looked too much like a therapist to be a real therapist. Once again I felt as if I were involved in some kind of joke -- some event staged just for me. But the psychiatrist's words (not this one, who I was sure would have more) rang in my ears -- how narcissistic could I be to believe that this was all done for my benefit? That I'm important enough for this elaboration? Bald, this model was, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. A smaller version of Freud, perhaps. But he was smiling. I don't remember ever seeing a picture of Freud smiling. Sat in the swivel chair, turned around and retrieved a small notebook from the desk behind him. When he turned back, he looked at me. "How do you do," he said. "I'm Dr. Edmondson." Leaned forward and offered his hand. "Aleister Crowley," I said, shaking it. "Who is your favorite Beatle?" "What?" "Who is your favorite Beatle? And why?" Surprised, I had to think about it a minute. "John, because . . . he's so talented and so troubled . . . I guess." "My real name is Dr. Bobb," he said after he released my hand. "How does it feel to be deceived? And by picking John you've already told me more about yourself than you'll ever know." The jig was up. Obviously he had read my file, or rather, my admission papers. I shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Would you like to tell the group your real name?" "I did," I said, "Mickey Constant." Of course, that wasn't even my real name. "Which name would you prefer?" he asked. "You may use any name you like." It dawned on me that he might know my real name . . . no way, that change occurred over twenty years ago. Forced, as it were, out of the role of the dedicated absurdist, I said, "I still don't know what you're talking about, but call me Mick, I guess." He leaned back. "Okay, Mick, first we need to establish some ground rules. Number one: you must be honest. This won't work if youMre dishonest. You will not be punished for anything you say, except, let me forewarn you, I am required by law to pass on to the proper authorities any information you divulge concerning and including threats of violence toward someone else, or child abuse. Do you understand?" "Yes." "Your fly is unzipped." I reached for it quickly. It wasn't unzipped. SikesM electric razor laugh buzzed in my ear. As if in chorus, came the higher-pitched ones of the two Dead Batteries. They both blushed. Darlene spoke happily, "Earn-out!" "Stupid shit," Satan said, shifting in his chair. "There he goes again," Jesus-Elvis said, coming to attention. He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket, leafed through it and held up his hand. "Forty-six 'F' words since group yesterday." He glanced sideways at Satan. "Twelve 'MF' words." A satisfied smile spread across his face. He leaned back. "Sack of fuckin' doorknobs," Satan spat at him, smirking. "Forty-seven," Dr. Bobb said. "What was your goal?" Satan rolled his eyes. "Get this hillbilly Messiah off my case, would you Doc? How can I cut down with him over my shoulder every minute?" "I thought we agreed that nobody controls anybody in this group. Look at me, please." Satan had been glaring at Jesus-Elvis; his mustache quivered. He turned to Dr. Bobb. "Bob on this, motherfucker." he said, indicating his crotch. Dr. Bobb disregarded him, turning slightly toward Samuel, "Okay, Samuel, would you like to tell Satan what you've learned about anger?" Samuel cleared his throat. "It starts with an A." He aimed his grin at Satan. A moment of silence followed, then Satan looked at Samuel and snickered. "Fucking A, man." "Fucking egg?" Darlene asked, her brow furrowed.
Slight Aside
Samuel is obviously not wallowing in guilt and grief this morning, as per usual. He's enamored with Akua . . . as is the author. Love makes you forget everything. I know, because all morning I've felt my memory slipping away. Why had I purposely been trying not to make eye contact with Akua earlier, when we walked in? I needed a little memory; I knew the therapist would ask me a few questions to get the ball rolling. I didn't want to seem like a blank-o; I've had electric shock treatments? Never again! Dr. Bobb's present problems in group control were initiated by me; I created the disharmony, or at least set the stage. I started out with a lie. I know: lies contaminate everything. And I'm not attempting to moralize. I lie as a defense. I don't have to deal with deeper, more painful issues, I'm told. It's survival, baby. Don't Drool On Your Cool Jesus-Elvis scowled, at Samuel's wisecrack, I guessed. Dr. Bobb spoke, "We're obviously feeling spunky this morning, aren't we, Samuel?" The therapist's smile looked painted on. "No one can make you angry," Jesus-Elvis blurted, apparently trying to get the session on track. He took a breath and turned to Satan. "You choose to get angry." "Fuckin' A," Satan said. He winked at Samuel. Jesus-Elvis' face reddened. He looked to Dr. Bobb. Dr. Bobb said, "How do you feel, J.E.?" I guess Jesus-Elvis was an easier target than Samuel. Less threatening. Jesus-Elvis pointed an accusing finger at Akua. "She's been writing again, too." "Who has?" "Her." "Who's her?" "That . . . woman sitting right there." "Say her name." "No, it's blasphemous." "There is no 'her' in here, J.E., only people with names." I interrupted, "What about your name? Jesus-Elvis?" In my various "vacations" in mental institutions I had come across many Jesus Christs, once even a Jesus Jones, but never before a Jesus-Elvis. Jesus-Elvis shrugged, irritated at my intrusion. "It's the two most popular men in western civilization, rolled into one." He glared at me. "I can preach and I can sing." I still didn't quite understand how that explained his blasphemy. He motioned toward Akua. "She's been writing nearly all the time." "How do you feel about that?" Dr. Bobb repeated. Now, Satan interrupted, "He feels like a fat turd. I mean, look at him. That's what he looks like. I've seen cuter toads. Cuter larvae. And I didn't even have to say fuck, once." "You're going to hell," Jesus-Elvis said, his lips pursed to the point of near invisibility. Satan snorted. "I am in hell, motherfucker. And so are you." Dr. Bobb broke in, "J.E., you seem to be avoiding the issue. How do you feel?" Jesus-Elvis closed his eyes. "You're angry, aren't you?" Dr. Bobb said. He hesitated a moment, tapping his pen on the note pad. He added softly, "What would Jesus Christ do if he were angry? What do you think he might do?" Jesus-Elvis' brow unfurrowed for a moment. He twitched, his eyes were still squeezed shut. "I know what he would do. I've been doing it! You think I'm stupid or something?" Satan sighed and rolled his eyes. "What are you doing?" Dr. Bobb asked Jesus-Elvis. "I'm asking God to forgive me." From the corner of my eye I watched Akua scribble a note and hand it to Dr. Bobb. She almost smiled that killer smile again; the corners of her mouth twitched. Dr. Bobb read the note and chuckled. "Akua says she forgives you." Jesus-Elvis' eyes popped open. "Not her! She's not God!" Dr. Bobb dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Okay, back to the subject. Praying is okay. But what if you really thought this through. How would that work? Let's investigate the logic." He shifted in his chair. "When Satan calls you a turd, do you feel like a turd?" Jesus-Elvis squeezed his eyes closed again, defiantly. He looked like a small angry child. "The truth shall set you free," Satan said. Dr. Bobb shot a recriminating glance at Satan before continuing. "You said you can preach and you can sing. Can a turd preach and sing?" In response, Satan covered his mouth with his hands and rolled his eyes again. "Can it?" "No," Jesus-Elvis whispered. "Okay, then you're not a turd, even if Satan says you are?" Jesus-Elvis shook his head tentatively. "If Satan said you were the Empire State Building or a duckbilled Platypus, would you be either one of them?" Jesus-Elvis shook his head. "Make a duckbilled Platypus sound?" Jesus-Elvis' brow furrowed again. He shook his head. "Why not? Come on, just one little quack." "Platypi don't quack," Darlene said, surprising everyone with a complete, relevant statement. Jesus-Elvis opened his eyes. "Close your eyes," Dr. Bobb said. Jesus-Elvis obeyed. "Make a turd sound. Or a motherfucker sound. Keep your eyes closed. "And Akua won't do what you want her to?" Dr. Bobb continued after a moment. "No." Jesus Elvis said. "She won't be what you want her to be, either?" "No." "So that means that you can't control her, can't control another human being. And Satan can't control you. So you're neither a god or a turd. Is that correct? You're somewhere in between?" Jesus-Elvis nodded. "Okay, J.E., your assignment for today is to wear this." He scribbled a note on his pad. "Lillian, would you please hand me one of those safety pins from my desk?" Dr. Bobb addressed Jesus-Elvis again. "Your assignment is to wear this the rest of the day and tonight. It says, 'I'm not a turd, or a god, I am a human being. I can only control myself." He handed it to Jesus-Elvis; Jesus-Elvis pinned it on his shirt. "One other thing, J. E. You can be Jesus-Elvis . . . you can use that name, but if you use it out in society, you must do something to justify it." With a serious expression, Dr. Bobb then said something very strange that endeared him to me instantly: "You must either start a new religion, or become a rock and roll singer." Nobody in that room could imagine that Jesus-Elvis would take that statement to heart. And with such success!
Uh Oh
Next, as I knew he would, the good doctor focused on me. I went immediately for the group's heartstrings: "There's a bag on my back filled with all the bad things I've ever done. All my guilt weighs the bag. It pulls me down. Once I became so filled with pain that I unloaded my bag on someone. Told them about all the things in the bag, all the things I had done." "And?" Dr. Bobb leaned forward. "I didn't unload everything. I keep two secrets, two of the most shameful, most humiliating things I had done." In spite of this being a ruse, I found myself inexplicably in the character I had created. My voice broke. "The bag is heavier now, heavier than even before I started emptying it." I almost cried! What a surprise! From pure fiction I created a story that almost moved me to tears! Whew! All I can tell you is this: 1. Maybe my story wasn't too far from truth. 2. I'm crazy, and I almost got careless, too. Yikes! Dr. Bobb didn't get around to everybody. I didn't find out why Akua is God, or Satan is Satan. Nor, did I find out why Sikes is Popeye, or Lillian and her still nameless friend are Dead Batteries, or why the Twiggy Twins are here. I already know Samuel's story, and enough of Darlene's. This is only day two here. One shouldn't be impatient. I'm sure, as they say to resistant but inquisitive newcomers in Alcoholics Anonymous, "More will be revealed." Here's the most significant part of what happened, at least in my estimation: Satan and Jesus-Elvis' relationship began changing. Right now, suffice it to say only that it began changing. How quickly, and to what degree? I don't know; it's complicated. The affirmation pinned to Jesus-Elvis' chest seemed to give him something that wasn't there before. And conversely, his new degree of confidence seemed to make Satan all the more resentful and determined to squelch it. But, on reflection, that's not so different than what was going on before. It's confusing.
High Drama
My assignment from Dr. Bobb is to write one secret, something I've always been afraid to tell, one of the two remaining secrets in my "bag", and disclose it to the group tomorrow. Ha ha! The good doctor doesn't know that I've become a writer. He doesn't know that my new hobby is making up stories. High Drama has become my middle name!
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