Near Death

by Glenn Cooper

  Spangler sidled up to Alex and asked through a mouthful of chips and dip, “Any recreational pharmaceuticals tonight, Weller?”

  “Unless someone surprises us, afraid not, Art. Going to have to make do with fermentation products. Jessie’s got plenty of that in the kitchen.”

  “Pity. Who’s going to be speaking?”

  “Larry’s got an interesting paper on something or another.”

  “Seems disorganized, Weller. Need to put our dues to better purpose.”

  “What dues are those?” Alex asked.

  “Point taken.” Spangler trundled off, continuing his quest for marijuana.

  Erica Parris, a grad student at the Harvard Divinity School, unwrapped her scarf and made a beeline for Alex, literally tugging a young man by the sleeve. She was ruddy-cheeked from the long walk along the Charles and exuded her usual earthy sexuality. Alex once told Gelb that Erica reminded him of an archetypal fertility talisman. Brimming with enthusiasm, she chimed, “Alex, I brought a newbie! Meet Sam Rodriguez.”

  Her charge was a lean, muscular Puerto Rican youth with protodreadlocks, the harbinger of some future grander tonsorial concoction. His features were stunningly chiseled and handsome, although he appeared dazed by unfamiliar surroundings.

  “Hello, Sam, welcome to my house. I’m Alex Weller.” Alex wasn’t in any mood to meet new talent but Sam made sharp confident eye contact, which made an instant positive impression.

  “I’m Sam. My friends call me S-Rod.”

  Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “If we become friends, I hope you’ll allow me to call you Sam. You seem like a Sam to me, not an S-Rod.”

  “Okay, man. We’ll see.”

  “Have you known Sam long, Erica?”

  “About forty-five minutes. We met on the steps of Widener Library when I was heading here.”

  “Well then, help yourself to wine or beer in the other room and we’ll have a toast to new relationships,” he said politely. “I assume Erica has told you about our salon.”

  “Sort of. Sounds wild.”

  “What attracted you?”

  He pointed to the woman’s thigh-high boots. “Her legs, man. I gotta be honest with you, that’s the main reason.”

  She playfully swatted him.

  “I like your honesty, Sam.” Alex snorted. “You’re at Harvard?”

  Sam nodded. “A junior.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Computational sciences.”

  “Well, let’s see if you connect to the kinds of subjects that interest us, Sam. If so, maybe we’ll see you back. If not, at least we shared a moment of commonality on the subject of Erica’s legs.”

  When all the cushions were filled and the circle formed, Alex took his place next to Jessie on a flat red pillow. For atmospherics, there was low light, a Govinda album—raga-style, electronic, hypnotic, playing softly in the background—and a smoky haze from burning sticks of sandalwood incense.

  “Welcome one, welcome all,” Alex began. He wasn’t feeling his usual expansive self but the show had to go on. “We have a new friend with us, Sam Rodriguez from Harvard, who has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. Say hello, Sam.”

  A salty wave. “Hey,” and others waved back.

  “For Sam’s benefit, welcome to the Uroboros Society, named for the mythical serpent—”

  “Who eats his own tail, right?” Sam interrupted. “An ancient symbol of infinity.”

  “I swear I didn’t prep him!” Erica squealed.

  “Yes, you’re right, Sam. Full marks. The Uroboros is a symbol of the infinite and the immortal, the serpent who destroys itself then brings itself back to life. And what this rather dog-eared group of individuals who congregate here like to contemplate is the idea that life is only a short segment of a longer, more interesting and far more complex journey. We like to talk about concepts of heaven and hell and other manifestations of the afterlife. We aren’t denominational; some of us don’t even have a religious bone in our bodies. We often return to the subject of near death experiences, or NDEs, as a laboratory for the study of postlife consciousness. A few of us have been blessed or cursed with our own NDEs and we perpetually bore the others with the details. Again, for Sam’s sake, raise your hands if you’re in this club.”

  Alex raised his own hand high. Virginia, a patent lawyer in severe black-framed glasses, raised hers too. Two other men joined in.

  “We talk. We meditate. Sometimes, some of us use adult substances like grass, ketamine, salvia, DMT or LSD to facilitate meditation and out-of-body experiences.”

  Sam grinned. “I’m down with that part, man. What’s on the menu?”

  “Just talk, I’m afraid. The cupboard’s bare. Then some group meditation. But first, Larry Gelb is going to share a paper on circular archetypes in near death experiences, which I know will be fascinating. So I’m going to shut my gob now and Larry is going to commence to dazzle us, as is his wont.”

  Gelb immediately launched into his talk, so enthusiastic and animated he was unable to remain seated. After a few moments he sprung up and stood at the center of the circle where he rotated his body slowly, like a lazy Susan, sharing himself evenly. He soon was speaking of Plato and his account of the near death experience of a soldier named Er, who described seeing a cosmic axis of light holding together eight spheres that revolved around the earth. “Over and over again,” Gelb told the group, “going back as far as Plato, the image of a sphere or circle or mandala pervades the near death experience.”

  While he talked, Alex’s thoughts caromed like molecules in Brownian motion, pinging from the speaker to Davis to Jessie to the new kid, Sam, to Thomas Quinn to Cyrus O’Malley to the pumpkin girl and always back to the tube in his fridge; then, a violent startling daydream. O’Malley was in his kitchen blocking his way. Alex saw himself savagely throwing him down, kneeling on his neck and plunging the surgical drill deep into his skull.

  He shook off the disturbing image and became aware that Gelb was wrapping things up, intoning portentously, “I return, my friends, like a broken record—you see, another circular image!—to the indisputable fact that the occurrence of the same symbols and archetypes appearing in all cultures across the sea of time is indisputable evidence of the existence of a collective human unconscious, and I further challenge you to disprove the following: that lurking behind that collective unconscious is the presence of God.”

  Later, when they were alone, lying on top of their bed, Alex was rigid and staring, out of synch with Jessie, who was folded against him, sleepy and dreamy.

  “What did you think of Sam?” he asked.

  “I liked him.”

  “Me too. I watched him while we meditated. He got into it, with an intensity. Everything about that kid is intense.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “I hope so. Probably depends on whether Erica sleeps with him.”

  She laughed and said, “Do you want to make love to me?”

  He turned to face her and propped his head on his fist. “Jessie, I need to do something tonight.”

  She reacted to his suddenly serious expression and stayed quiet.

  He didn’t speak for a few moments and instead tenderly moved some strands of hair out of her eyes until he said, “I may have made a breakthrough in the lab. There’s only one way to know. Will you help me?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Be my guardian angel.”

  He left the bed and returned with the plastic tube and a pipette, sat back on the edge of the bed, and held the tube up for her inspection. It contained a small amount of clear liquid.

  “What is it?”

  “Maybe nothing; maybe something important—maybe what I’ve spent my life looking for.”

  She crabbed herself across the bed till she was sitting beside him and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes. “Is it dangerous?”

  “I don’t know w
hat to expect. There could be no effect, there could be potent pharmacology. I need you to watch over me. Will you do that?”

  She hesitated then nodded.

  “If I pass out, check my breathing and my pulse—I’ve taught you how to do that. If my respiratory rate goes below eight or above thirty, that’s bad. If my pulse goes below forty or above one fifty, that’s bad too. Call nine one one and tell them I’ve had an overdose. Tell them it was salvia. For God’s sake don’t tell anybody what I really did. If I vomit, keep my airway clear. If I’m scared, comfort me. That’s all.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She touched his face. “I know you’ve got to do what you think is right, Alex. I’m the one who holds onto you when you’re having nightmares. But …”

  He waited for her to finish.

  “… please don’t leave me.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I won’t.”

  He didn’t hesitate. With an expert hand he pipetted up a precise tenth of a milliliter of clear fluid, opened his mouth and let a cold drop of liquid slide under his tongue.

  Eleven

  Alex called it the runway, the interval between taking a drug and starting the flight. When he talked to neophytes about mind-altering drugs, he told them the runway was the time to get physically and emotionally prepared, like a pilot waiting for takeoff. Be ready.

  Stay alert to your surroundings.

  Go through your safety checklist, like a pilot.

  Who was watching out for you? Were the windows closed? Was the door locked? Was a water bottle handy?

  For some drugs the runway was predictable: you knew how long you’d be waiting for liftoff. For LSD it could be an hour; for DMT maybe only a couple of minutes.

  For this one—his beautiful, pure 854.73—he had no idea of when or even if. It could be a false lead, nothing to do with near death experiences. Or it could be the genuine article but nevertheless a chemical that couldn’t be absorbed by mouth. He thought he’d be giving it the best shot by dripping it under his tongue. That way, the molecule might be absorbed directly through capillary-rich membranes, and if not, he’d get a second chance when he swallowed and the liquid passed into his stomach. If the experiment fizzled, he might have to try again by snorting the clear liquid into his nose, or worst case, he could inject it with all the hazards that might entail.

  He was past the point of guessing.

  Alex was comfortable, barefoot, breathing smoothly, lying supine on his bed, his head nestled into a soft satin pillow. His T-shirt was loose-fitting, soft from a hundred washes. He unbuttoned his jeans to unbind his waist. He removed the elastic from his ponytail and let his hair fall onto his shoulders.

  Jessie was lying on her side, facing him, her sleepiness quashed by the gravity of the task Alex had given her. The light was perfect: restful for him but bright enough should she need to spring to action, grab the phone, and drag him onto the floor for chest compressions, as he’d taught her.

  He reached over and put his hand on the contour of her waist. He gave her a little squeeze for reassurance; for thanks—for love.

  The street was quiet, no passing cars at this hour. The bedroom windows were half open, letting the crisp coldness of the night sanctify the room. He felt completely comfortable, at ease, pleasantly tingling.

  I’m ready for whatever comes.

  It crept up on him like a cat stalking an unsuspecting sparrow. Waiting, waiting … then pouncing.

  One moment he was lying beside Jessie thinking about pulling her over for a kiss, and the next, his perspective violently flipped, in a way that ought to have alarmed him but didn’t.

  He’d been in this topsy-turvy world before—floating, hovering, observing, when he was a child—on the motorway.

  It was a perspective he’d often dreamed about. In his heart, he’d always held on to the belief that he’d experience it one more time, at the very least at the moment of death but preferably before.

  And here it was! Heady and exhilarating: a weightless perch for self-contemplation. He was hovering low enough to make out the pattern of blue veins in his own hands, geographic, like swollen rivers. Yet he was high enough to take in the entire bed, the whole room, its edges blurring as if seen through a fish-eye lens.

  He was drawn to himself. He knew her face, her body well enough; but seeing himself—not in a mirror or photo but rather the living, breathing man as others see him—was jarring. Unsettling. Fascinating.

  His eyes were closed and Jessie was whispering to him, touching his forehead, watching him breathe. “Alex, are you asleep?” she was saying. “Are you okay?”

  He wasn’t answering.

  I have a good face, he thought, hovering. Not handsome, not ugly … kind. It’s a kind face. I know what I’ve done. But I’m still a good man. And now it’s been worth it. For me. For Thomas. For those girls.

  He steeled himself, and as Jessie awkwardly felt for his carotid pulse, it happened.

  A black fog rolled in and obscured the bed. Amorphous at first, it coalesced into a perfect circle and darkened into the blackest black he’d ever seen.

  He took a deep breath. He’d be traveling soon.

  And precisely at the moment his lungs filled to capacity the black disc became three-dimensional, a tunnel—and he was hurtling through it at seemingly unimaginable speed, though it felt frictionless, effortless. It wasn’t as if he were plunging head- or feetfirst; it felt more like skydiving, arms and legs outstretched, but without any physical forces playing upon his body. He was completely comfortable, stressless, fearless, his ears filled with the soothing sound of rushing air, though he could feel no wind on his skin.

  The walls of the tunnel came alive with sparkling flashes that pulsed with blinding intensity then vanished, like light from the bellies of supercharged fireflies. There was no sense of directionality. He couldn’t tell if he was falling, rising, or moving laterally, and it occurred to him that he could even be stationary, the tunnel hurtling toward and around him. Time too was unfathomable. He blinked for what felt to be a second but was unsure if a moment had lapsed or an eternity.

  Finally, he saw what he was hoping to see: a pinpoint of steady, unwavering light ahead, slowly growing larger. He couldn’t tear his eyes away; it appeared so welcoming, a lighthouse beacon in an impossible fog, and when it grew man-sized he entered this pure disc of light and all movement stopped.

  He stood in a sea of whiteness so impenetrable he couldn’t make out his own appendages.

  He took a sharp breath to try to feel the whiteness against his throat, but it was neutral—not frosty or steamy—but without taste, unevocative.

  Then, as the whiteness became by increments paler and more translucent, he was able to see his legs and outstretched hands, and finally, a terrain.

  The scape was green and expansive, flat and limitless, monochromatic, matching the hue of a blade of spring grass. Yet it wasn’t grass, just color; and when he took a tentative first step, the terrain was neither firm nor soft. He felt nothing against his bare feet.

  Rising on the horizon from the green expanse was a field of faint blue whiteness, reminiscent of a pale dawn sky but too lifeless and unchanging for that, another expanse of tint without substance.

  He strained his ears.

  There it was!

  The sound he’d tried to relive in his mind a thousand times, the sweetest gurgling.

  At first he strode across the greenness but as the gurgling got louder he broke into a run, a joyous romp, like a boy flying through a field on his way home, hungry and thirsty after a long day of play.

  And when it came into view, that lovely shimmering river, he pulled up and stared. It was more than familiar, long imprinted in his mind’s eye. Its black shiny stepping-stones beckoned. The turbulence they caused must have been the source of the splashing and gurgling noises but the substance of the river appeared as light, not water. Perhaps, he thought, the sounds existed solely to make the s
tepping-stones more inviting for anyone standing on such terra incognita.

  Across the river, the featureless green plain stretched and merged at the horizon into a pale blue infinite stretch of nothingness.

  Then, he spied something—a small dark shape, amazingly far away. Slowly, it grew larger, until with straining eyes he could just make out a figure walking toward him.

  For the first time, utter calm was replaced by rising excitement.

  Please, please, be him.

  And when he saw it was him his chest began to shudder and tears welled up.

  The man stopped on the opposite bank of the river. Dickie Weller still wore his silly Liverpool cap and his favorite suede car coat. The red woolen cap was perched atop his big head and though he was on the opposite side, Alex could make out the pride stamped on his fleshy, ruddy face.

  Dickie waved his arms exuberantly and shouted above the flowing river. “Alex!”

  It was hard to speak through the sobs. He could only manage a single word. “Dad!”

  “You’re all grown up!” Dickie shouted. “You were a lad. Now you’re a man.”

  Alex nodded.

  “Come over! Come to me, son!”

  “I want to!”

  Dickie gently waved one hand like a traffic cop signaling a driver to proceed through an intersection. “Then come!”

  Though the tears continued to stream Alex, was able to stop the sobbing because an intense, pure happiness was growing into a physical rush, more powerful than any ever experienced in a natural or chemical high.

  He tentatively stepped onto the first black stone and the pleasure only increased.

  “There you go!” Dickie shouted. “That’s it!”

  He was surprised to feel the stones against his bare soles, the first tactile input of the experience. Though they looked cool and slick, they felt warm and dry and he was able to push off confidently to the next one.

  Midway across, he glanced down at the river. The flow was fast, the color iridescent. The urge to dip a toe passed. The opposite bank beckoned.