Pihkal

by Alexander Shulgin

  Ben called us into the kitchen, where Shura was leaning against the sink, arms folded, ready to tell all of us about the drug we would be taking. Behind him, lined up in a neat row on the counter, were ten kitchen glasses of varying sizes and shapes.

  "This," he said, "Is one of the sulfur analogues of DOM and DOET that David and I have been sweating over for months now. Its full name is 2-methoxy-4-methyl-5-inethylthioamphetamine, but you can call it 5-TOM. We refer to the family as the TOMS and TWATS." He waited until the groans had quieted down, and explained, "That last one is spelled T-O-E-T, of course, being the sulfur analogue of DOET, and there's obviously only one way to pronounce it, which is TWAT. At least, that's how David and I see it."

  David laughed, "Last week, we were having lunch with a bunch of very dignified chemists/

  visiting from the East Coast, and one of them asked the usual polite question, 'What are you two working on these days?' and when Shura told him - you know, very casually and completely straight-faced - about the TOMs and TWATs, there was this dead silence, then one guy broke up, and the others choked on their sandwiches, and - well, it was sort of downhill all the way from there, you might say!"

  "Anyway," said Shura, when quiet was restored, "Alice and I have taken this up to fifty milligrams, and I'm willing to try that again -," he glanced at me, and I nodded, " - but some of you may want to go a bit lower, since it's a new one."

  George nodded vigorously, as did Ruth. I was sure John would match Shura's and my fifty; he usually took the maximum level offered. Ben wasn't predictable; sometimes he matched Shura, but at others he seemed cautious, probably because of a recent rise in his blood pressure which - he'd told us - was slight but nonetheless worrisome, at his age.

  Shura continued, "There seems to be some time distortion, a lot of eyes-closed fantasy, and Alice found it very interesting to look at paintings in art books. It takes anywhere from forty-five minutes to something over an hour to plateau, and the drop-off begins around the fourth or fifth hour.

  "It's a long one; between eight and twelve hours before you can sleep, depending on the dosage. I was energetic the next day, but Alice said she was pretty flaked out, so you may or may not need Sunday to recoup."

  Ruth spoke up, "We've got mats and covers for everyone, in case anybody wants to spend the night. And lots of eggs and bacon for breakfast!"

  "How is this stuff on the body?" asked Theo.

  "For me, fine. Alice had some heaviness, one time, but it was okay the next, so no predictions on that. Neither of us found any neurological threat anywhere."

  After the usual discussion, Ruth decided to be modest, at 35 milligrams, while George said he'd try 40; Emma, who was usually pretty venturesome - she described herself proudly as a China Doll with an iron head - said she'd take 45. Ben, Theo and David said 45 sounded reasonable. John, as I'd expected, voted for the same dosage as the Borodins: 50 milligrams.

  After clinking glasses in the traditional circle and swallowing our 5- ÒÎÌ, we dispersed in various directions. I went out the back door of the kitchen to the patio, where I could sit at the round white-painted outdoor table and smoke, under a magnificent kiwi vine the Closes had lovingly tended for years. It was carried around one entire side of the patio area by a wooden trellis, and every fall gave them baskets full of kiwis, which they shared with everyone they knew who liked the delicate, translucent green fruit.

  I returned to the kitchen for a glass of ice-water, and met Ruth, who smiled at me, "How are you doing?"

  "Okay, so far. I felt an alert a while ago, and I guess it's developing. What about you?"

  She pulled her sweater around her in a familiar gesture, "I don't know. A teeny bit sluggish, I think. Not bad, but not much fun, yet. Guess I'll just stay with the others in the living room and listen to Shura and Ben competing with each other; that'll keep me distracted until I plateau."

  I returned to the patio, with its soft sunlight, and stayed for a while, smoking, enjoying the isolation, while keeping track of the effects. I become increasingly aware of a certain discomfort of my own, and recalled Ruth's word, "sluggish." There was also a vague ache across the back of my shoulders, and my mood was anything but light-hearted. In fact, I was feeling slightly depressed.

  May as well join the rest of the guinea pigs. Transition is often a drag for me. Nothing new in that.

  In the living room, I found Theo lying on his back on one of the rugs, near the big fireplace. At the other end of the long room, David lay curled up on another rug, with John a few feet away.

  Ben and Shura were seated on the couch, exchanging atrocious puns, while Emma sat curled up in an armchair, laughing. She seemed to be feeling fine.

  Ruth was sitting in another chair and she seemed a bit restless; her bare feet twisted and rubbed against each other and her hands were either stroking her skirt or fingering the agate stones of her necklace.

  George was very still in his chair, only the tips of his fingers moving on the armrests. As I watched, he suddenly shuddered and got up, announcing in an unusually flat voice that he was going upstairs. "I've got to get under the electric blanket, because I'm very cold. If you will please excuse me?"

  Ruth went upstairs with him, while Ben and Shura watched from the couch, their banter forgotten. I saw them exchange speculative looks, then Shura asked the rest of us, "Anyone else feeling chilled?" Nobody replied.

  "How's the body, for the rest of you? Any problems?" Theo spoke up, his arms folded behind his head, "I'd say it's not the kindest material I've ever tried. I've got a bit of stomach cramping, and I can't seem to get really comfortable, no matter how I shift my different parts around."

  I glanced over at him from my own place on the floor, a few feet away, and agreed, "Yeah, I'm with you. Not the stomach problem, but it makes me feel sort of heavy; it reminds me a little of the MDA cloak, in fact. Not one of my favorite sensations."

  John spoke up from his corner near the big window, "What's the MDA cloak?"

  "It's the reason I don't take MDA. I get a sensation around the upper back and shoulders that feels as if I'm wearing a leaden cloak. I can't shake it off, and it's all I can think about. MDA is a total waste of time for me, because I don't experience anything else. No insights, no nice visual stuff, no images or fantasies; just the ache in my back and wishing I were out of it."

  "Oh dear," said John, "And is that what you're feeling now, with the 5-TOM?"

  "Not quite that badly, but almost, and nothing's happening inside that's interesting enough to make up for the body discomfort, up to now."

  Emma stretched and yawned, then reported, "Well, it's been great for me, so far. It's a wonderful de-stressor. I've been talking a blue streak and having a great time, but I see what Alice means, about there not being much going on. Colors are bright and friendly, and the leaves of that plant on the mantelpiece are moving nicely, but otherwise - well, I have the impression that I wouldn't get much done if I tried writing on this." "All right," said Shura. He turned to Ben, "You, Benjamino?" "I second that - about the de-stressing quality - and for the rest, I'll have to admit I've been too busy having fun with puns to pay attention. I haven't been aware of any physical problems at all. Quite comfortable, in fact. I'll focus on the psychological aspects for a while and see what turns up-In response to Shura's questioning look, Leah, seated on the floor with her elbows on the coffee table, smiled and said, "I'm seeing some lovely visuals and I feel fine, very relaxed. I suppose it isn't specially insightful, but that's okay with me, right now. It's the relaxation I need. It's nice, Shura."

  Shura's voice rose slightly, "David, how about you?" His long, thin body unfolding with obvious reluctance, David slowly pulled himself into sitting position, arms hugging his denim knees, and cleared his throat. He said, "It's been mostly a lot of - uh - kind of depressing stuff, so far.

  Reviewing some disappointments and frustrations. And a lot of loneliness. I tried switching to another channel, but it didn't work. The same record seems to
want to keep on playing. Not a very positive report, I'm afraid." I wished fervently, not for the first time, that someone could find exactly the right girl for David. She would have to either adore chemistry, herself, and be as excited by it as he was, or else love and admire him enough to be content with the knowledge that chemistry was his first love, his life-blood, and that she would always come second to it - even if only fractionally second - in his heart.

  At least, she wouldn't have to worry about competing with another woman; only with methyl groups and sexy things on the four-position!

  Shura got up, "I'm going to check on George. Be back in a minute."

  Theo said, "I think I'm going to try sitting up at the table and see if I can do a bit of writing, maybe start my report on the 5-TOM. I suspect lying around on the floor like this, doing nothing, makes me pay too much attention to small twips and twirps in the body."

  I watched him ease himself onto his feet and wished him luck. He was a good-looking young man, with a dark beard and full head of hair. Although the light blue of his eyes was inherited from Shura, his mother's genes had shaped the rest of his face. He called me his "wicked stepmother," and we had become very good friends.

  Emma was sharing her impressions of a recent exhibit at the Oakland Art Museum with Leah, when Shura came down the stairs. He went over to Ben and murmured, "Come up to the bedroom, for a sec. Take a look at George. I need your professional expertise." I saw him slip his feet back into the sandals he'd thrown off, hours earlier.

  Ben put on his glasses.

  Shura had said to me with some amusement long ago, that you could always tell when there was trouble during an experiment, because he would put on his sandals, and Ben would put on his glasses. "For no logical reason," he'd said, "We each react in those particular ways when there's a problem. It's the first instinctive step in gearing ourselves up - getting into focus - to deal with something that's not as it should be."

  I went into the dining room, where Theo was writing in his notebook, and sat across the table from him. I said, "Your father just took Ben upstairs to look at George. Something must be going on."

  Theo looked up, "What do you think? Has Ruth come down?"

  "Nope. I think I'm going to tiptoe up there and find out what's happening. By the way, how're you feeling now? Still not too comfortable?"

  "I've been happier," he admitted, "I've been making some notes, but it feels like work, not inspiration. This is going to be a definite no-repeat, for me."

  "Me, too," I said, "I keep trying to shake off the discomfort, but it doesn't shake, and there's nothing much else to concentrate on. No concepts, no cosmic revelations, no nuthin'. In fact, if I weren't so annoyed, I'd be just plain bored!" We both laughed.

  "Can I see what you've written, so far? Would you mind?"

  "Go ahead." He turned the notebook around and pushed it over to me.

  The body of the notes began with the number, [1:25], which meant one hour and twenty-five minutes into the experiment.

  "Probably +2. Somewhat visual, particularly in light/shadow texture. Colors tend to run into each other. No problem writing. Some slight stomach cramps, muscle fatigue. Something on the edges disturbing. Distinct time distortion, but time not much concern. Peripheral vision very active. Felt as toxic to the body, not intellectual. 'No Exit' feeling. Motion and depth somewhat disfigured. Wanting to do something, and yet - what?

  "Hard time making up mind. Is it a toxic response or just the effect of this chemical? Non-productivity."

  I nodded and thanked him, sliding the notebook back across the table. When I went past the living room, Emma and Leah were still talking animatedly about the museum. I climbed the carpeted stairway to the second floor. Shura and Ben were on either side of George, holding him under his arms and urging him to walk. Ruth was standing by the bed, her face set and anxious. Shura glanced at me and said, carefully casual, "A few odd little neurological signs that bear watching. Ben thinks as I do, that the heat from the electric blanket is probably intensifying the effects - he had it up to the highest setting, by the way - and we're trying to persuade him to go downstairs, where we can keep an eye on him."

  George had a calm, pleasant look on his face, but he said nothing. I tried to look into his eyes, to make contact of some kind, and it was clear that he didn't see me.

  "There are coordination problems with the eyes," said Shura.

  "He's certainly conscious," Ben remarked, "But there's no response to external stimuli, and he certainly isn't communicating from the inside."

  "Looks like nothing in, nothing out," summarized Shura, "And motor coordination is shot."

  They continued to move him forward, through the door and onto the landing, and his steps were shuffling, almost robotic.

  "Here we are, George," said Ben, speaking as if to a small child, "Now let's go down the stairs, slowly. We're holding you, so you can't fall."

  Shura, on the other side, said, "Come on, George. It's just a few steps. You're absolutely safe."

  George had come to a stop within a few inches of the stairway. He still made no sound, but the body language was clear. He wasn't going any further.

  Ruth was pleading, "Honey, you'll be all right. We just want to get you to the living room, please? I'm right here with you. You won't fall, sweetheart! Just take one step at a time," with no results. After a few more tries, Shura speculated that George might be more easily persuaded if Ruth took his place, that maybe the physical contact with his wife would get through to him.

  She tried for a while, but George wasn't budging.

  Finally, when Ruth said she would have to take a moment out to go to the bathroom, I volunteered to take her place, holding George under the armpit and urging him, softly and continuously, "Come on, George, lift the foot and put it down. We're holding you. Come on, dear, move your foot!"

  When Ben and I shifted our hold on him, placing our arms across his back, George's left hand found the curve of my breast and the fingers pressed in and out of the softness spastically, the way a newborn infant's hand kneads the mother's breast while nursing.

  I remarked to Shura that some part of him seemed to recognize a female breast, anyway, but that I didn't think he was going to be persuaded to go downstairs by anyone, at least not right now.

  Shura and Ben decided to lead George away from the stair and into his study, where he could sit down on the little couch and be at peace until he repaired.

  None of us said out loud what we were all thinking: that whatever had happened might never repair, that there was at least a tiny, very frightening possibility that George would remain catatonic, his face permanently open and unguarded, eyes unseeing, unable to remember speech.

  When they turned him in the new direction, he moved willingly again, though his steps were still awkward. I had no doubt that if his supports were taken away, he would fall to the floor in a heap.

  We took turns sitting with him in the study. Now and then, a soft explosion of sound came up his throat and out of his mouth. There was an urgency to the eruption, a forcefulness, but I detected no sense of fear or anxiety. I had the impression he was communicating, and I wondered, for an instant, how long it would take for any of us to begin understanding his language, if it turned out to be necessary to do so.

  I talked to him, slowly and affectionately, about the photographs he had fastened to the wall above his desk, about his friends downstairs, about how we loved him and everything was going to be all right. I talked about anything that came to mind.

  When Shura relieved me, I went downstairs and found Ruth in the kitchen, keeping herself busy, preparing food for the table. She seemed very calm, and when I remarked on the amazing absence of panic or anger - either or both of which would have been justified, under the circumstances - she said, "Well, you know, I keep having this feeling that he's going to be all right. Maybe it's the effect of the 5-TOM, but every time I start wondering what I'm going to do if he doesn't come out of this, a little voice i
nside tells me not to worry. It says just be patient, he'll be good as new very soon. So I've decided to believe that, and in the meantime, some nice food on the table might make everybody feel better. And as soon as George starts coming out of wherever he is, he's going to feel hungry, right?"

  "That much, we can be sure of!"

  I went outside with my cigarettes and glass of water, after telling her I'd be under the kiwi for a while, in case she needed me for anything.

  An hour later, Leah was babysitting George upstairs and the rest of us were seated around the dining table, savoring tastes and smells, grateful for good food and good friends, mentally pulling at George to come back.

  We had progressed to dessert, and Ruth's legendary poppy seed cake was being cut when David, who had been taking his turn in the study, came hurrying downstairs and told us, "I have a feeling George is getting better. I'm pretty sure there's some kind of change. His eyes are beginning to focus more, and I think maybe he recognizes me. Why don't we try him on the stair again and see what happens?"

  Fifteen minutes later, George had made it down the stairs and was seated in his favorite armchair in the living room, beginning to remember English. Leah brought him a piece of fresh buttered sourdough bread with a slice of cheese, and Ruth sat beside him, spooning soup into his mouth. His face was happy and his eyes seemed to be functioning normally. I had the impression that some corner of his soul was still attached to wherever it was he'd been, but the tie was weakening. He was definitely coming back.

  His first full sentence was, "Good grief! Why am I being fed like a baby?"

  Ruth handed him the spoon, chuckling, and he finished the bowl of soup on his own. Then he sat back in his chair, burped appreciatively, and looked around the room at the faces intently watching his every move. We were all smiling at him, and he smiled back.