Magical Mystery Tour De Force

Magical Mystery Tour de Force 7:30 am: Alarm rings. Stagger into kitchen, start coffee brewing. Turn on TV, watch news. "Man killed by police for refusing to stop when ordered" talking head mouths. Outrage turns to remembrance: "GET OUT OF THE CAR", the Nazi with the .44 screams as he reaches across Jimmy to grab the keys. Jimmy turns to me, face full of beatific calm, and whispers "you have to eat it". My eyes dart to the still smoldering, half-burned handrolled organic wonder in the ashtray. Jimmy obeys, slowly exiting the driver's door giving me the time to retrieve the spliff, and pop it into my oral cavity. I respond likewise, and as my body is molested by searching gorilla hands, I feast upon the charred flower buds - the taste is wretched, but less wretched than the fate which awaits us if I don't finish my food. Twenty minutes later, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth by the proper authorities, we are in our car, unencumbered by the specter of imminent death if we fail to obey orders. It's 7:47 am. and seven million things could happen today. 9:45 am: The class shuffles out of the room, except for one lingerer who approaches me. He is rarely there, never talks, misses due dates - but when he writes, it's absolutely brilliant for a freshman. I wonder what he will petition for, what I should say to him. The disease of this too-familiar situation jars my memory. 1982 and the sky is blue. I am maneuvering my bicycle, laden with baggage over a country road. My quest had taken me 95 miles, toward what destination I knew not. If my sociology prof. had only known what loaning me the book *Peace Pilgrim* would bring about! I stop to rest, examine the cloudless horizon, and think "what the $#@% am I doing?" I get back on my bike and do a 180. It's now days later, and I am begging my English 1302 instructor for a chance to retake the final exam that I had missed during my absence. Her eyes hardened, the words were not even necessary. I'm back now, and he's looking askance at me. I am reminded of Gertrude Stein's diffident note to William James about missing her final exams at Harvard, and the syn-chronic nature of the moment makes me smile...accommodations can be made. It's 9:52 and 3 million things can happen today. 12:14 pm: My blood begins to boil. I have been standing in line for over ten minutes, and now my progress is completely thwarted. "Can't you just take my word for it?", I practically scream. "Sir", the clerk icily replies, "I have to have a skew number before I can ring it up". The part of me that isn't insane at the moment ponders, "Ring? Cash registers haven't rang in twenty years". And there I was, 1976, except I was on the receiving end. "Goddammit", the red-faced man screams at me, "I want some napkins NOW!" As assistant manager of the fast-food restaurant, I had ordered my supplies from the commissary, but they had failed to send me certain

vital items. An employee had been sent to the store to buy emergency fill-ins, but it would be several minutes before she returned. "NOW!", he breathes fire into my face, and the entire restaurant turns silent. "The customer is always right", I remind myself as I repair to the back, and again as I approach the irate patron's table. "Here you are sir", I distribute folded-up toilet paper to each of the four seated, "and have a nice day". I am still complimenting myself on my problem resolution skills when the general manager calls an hour later to fire me for my rudeness. The scene in real-time faded back into my conscious view, with little logistical improvement. My newfound silence seems to intimidate the clerks even more than my volcanism, and matters get resolved. It's 12:26 and a million things can happen today. 3:39 pm: I enter the hospital room with my tray of sharp implements. My mercenary mission is to obtain a sample of this patient's blood, one which I have performed perhaps two thousand times before. The victim of this sacrificial rite is like many, in this drug rehab unit, beginning the withdrawal from his heroinic monkey. I start the usual small talk, but it is quickly interrupted with an agonized "just draw my blood and leave me alone". I feel a bit of anger for being so rebuffed, how dare the junkie insult me so, and so on,an indignation which dissolves into memory: it is 1988, and the moaning creature on the bed is me, having just had a kidney removed to be transplanted into my younger brother. My veins have collapsed, and the entire staff tries unsuccessfully to reestablish my intravenous link, without which effective analgesia can not be achieved. I finally demand to be given the needle set, and after tortuous effort to prop myself at the proper angle, plunge the penetrating steel into my flesh. The agony of the invasion is hardly felt against the background of my rent torso, and my probe is finally rewarded with a dark crimson flow into the tubing. Only seconds later, the morphine hits and I pass out of consciousness into the junkie's bliss, floating away on pillows of warm air, the pain draining from like the vortex of bath water from a tub. "Did you get it yet?" - my patient's query jars me back to reality. "Yes...I hope it's not too bad on you" I reply. He engages my eyes in a somewhat grateful manner as I retreat into the hallway. It's 3:44 pm. and 300,000 things could happen today. 8:28 pm: I arrive in the middle of the third inning. The Brewers are rocking the Ranger pitching in an extreme way. Some fans below me begin to boo and call for the current reliever's removal. I shake my head at how things never change. I'm now mentally transported to 1968, it's the final game of the season. My Pony League baseball team must win the make the playoffs, but we are being trounced by the strongest team in the league. I occupy my usual seat at the end of the bench, and watch every pitcher we have get hit mercilessly. "Warm up", the coach commands me. I look around, not believing my ears, I haven't got into a game the entire year except for pinch hitting. I follow the orders, and the coach ends the suffering of the kid on the mound and inserts me. Men on second and third, two out. I walk the first batter on four pitches, none of which the catcher can even get a glove

on. I repeat the procedure with the next batter to 3-0, the parents are now muttering in the stands, the coach seems poised to leave the dugout and forfeit the game, when the inexplicable happens - the batter decides to hit my next pitch. The blast zoomed toward the fence, seemingly out of reach of the left fielder. A desperation jump at the fence and he comes down with the ball? End of four, them 12, Us 0. The top of the fifth, supernatural powers suddenly entered our sticks and we bat around twice for 15 runs. I go out the next two innings in a trance and strike out six batters to win my first and only game of my career. The Ranger's pitching coach is out to talk with his reliever, and I send mental signals of support: "Let him hang around for one more pitch". It's 8:33 and 3000 things, including a Ranger comeback, could happen. 11:15 pm: The kids are in bed, I plop my tired carcass down and flip the TV channel to a cable movie. Fuzzy, dimly lit images of bodies writhing over each other, the strategic parts hidden by shadow and editing expertise flicker across my eyes. I am bored, yet I keep watching. "What makes sex such a powerful impulse?" I ask myself, and on cue my time-machine memories percolate to the surface. It is 1980, there is snow on the ground that I view from the comfort of a bed, where I am about to "go all the way" with someone that I idealized as a goddess, an angelic manifestation sent to Earth to reward me for my constancy. Before I can fixate on the moment of truth, I fast-forward two years plus into the future. Tears, anger, recriminations permeate the atmosphere of a sweltering summer afternoon. The goddess and her supplicant have reached the parting of the ways; her divinity seems less certain now. A panorama of images explode in my brain: I'm at the dog track, but I'm not in the stands, I'm one of the dogs..."Her comes the rabbit"..I explode out of the box, I burn to catch that rabbit...Now I'm a horse in training, chasing the carrot on a stick which recedes from me eternally...I ache to have it in my mouth...The soft-core movie has reached a climax, and I click the TV off, feeling that I have either been shown the secret of everything, or its ultimate meaninglessness. I slide into bed, and the electrical monster that is my brain slows its vibrations from beta to alpha, slower now, now theta....annnddd ddeeellltttaaa......It was 11:59 pm, there were probably 11 things that could happen, but ignorance is bliss, dontcha know! :)