by S. G. Browne
Freud said the ego separates what is real and helps us to organize our thoughts and make sense of them and the world around us. He said the ego is the part of our unconscious personality that has been modified by the direct influence of the external world.
Right now, I’m thinking Freud makes more sense.
The newbie raises his hand.
“Yes?” says Chookie.
“Is there going to be a test on this?”
She laughs. “Not in the traditional sense of the word, no. The test is how you work on yourself and develop an understanding of the separation of your ego from who you truly are. That is what meditation is all about: finding your own path to enlightenment and happiness and the true nature of your own existence.”
I like the sound of that. After all, finding the true nature of my existence is why I’m here.
“Our thoughts are not us,” she says. “When you meditate, you are attempting to separate your thoughts, and thus your identity, from yourself.”
Maybe it’s just me, but separating my identity from myself sounds like a good way to end up with schizophrenia.
In addition to my meditation practice and spiritual seminars and yoga classes, I also have a Zen garden and have taken up calligraphy and flower arranging. I even convinced Delilah to get in on the act by signing up for some Tantric sex classes. I haven’t converted to vegetarianism yet because bacon tastes so damn good.
Apparently I’m not alone. I hear some vegetarians are lobbying to have bacon reclassified as a vegetable.
“You want to get rid of all of your thoughts so that you arrive at a state of emptiness,” says Chookie. “That is what we’re striving for in meditation. To make yourself empty and filled with nothing, though even nothing possesses an essential, enduring identity.”
In Taoism and Buddhism, nothing or emptiness is represented by zero, while in Latin the number zero is derived from the expression nulla figura, which when translated means not a real figure. For some reason, this seems important but the reason escapes me.
“Are there any other questions?” Chookie looks around. “Okay then. Everyone take a deep breath and relax. Backs straight but not rigid, head tilted slightly forward, eyes closed or looking along the line of your nose, hands folded in front of you or on your knees.”
I close my eyes and imagine a zero floating in the darkness in front of me, growing larger and larger as I drift closer to it. I can almost feel myself falling into the middle of it, tumbling into the darkness and emptiness, into the nothingness, and I sense an answer to a question about my own identity that has always eluded me, hovering just at the edge of my awareness. Then Chookie rings her miniature gong and the answer slips away.
CHAPTER 30
“We need to talk,” I say.
“About what?” says Nat.
I almost tell Nat that I think I’m a mass murderer and that two of my coworkers have been shipped off to Metropolitan State Hospital for mental evaluation, but I don’t think this is the place.
We’re standing in line for lunch at Pink’s on La Brea a week before Thanksgiving with about three dozen other men and women, most of them in a normal state of existence—though I see Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston at the front getting ready to place their order, so not everyone’s themselves.
“We need to talk about what you’re doing,” I say.
“Can you be more specific, bro?”
“It has to do with your recent lifestyle change.”
I haven’t seen much of Nat over the past month, not since I told him I thought he had a problem with Egos. The few times I have seen him, he’s been someone else.
Robin Hood. Mickey Mantle. The Dude.
All of them are part of the EGOS product line, but Nat hasn’t been getting them from me. I tried to make peace with him by offering him some Egos I knew he’d enjoy, but he told me he didn’t want to be my charity case. And since Nat can’t afford to legally alter his identity on what he makes, that means he’s been buying his Egos on the streets of Hollywood and Los Feliz. That worries me. And not just because of the dangers of black market Egos.
While Bill Summers insists that we never had a meeting back in May, I know we did. I remember it as clearly as I remember my father’s funeral and when I met Delilah and the day I found out there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I also remember what Bill said about other EGOS employees testing the antidote on unsuspecting black market users, so I can’t take the chance that someone might target Nat. The last thing I want is for my best friend to end up on the news as another casualty.
“I’m worried about you,” I say.
“Worried? About what? I’m better than I’ve ever been.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about, bro.” Nat looks up at the menu. “Although I am having trouble deciding between a chili cheeseburger and a chili cheese dog.”
“I’m serious,” I say.
“So am I,” he says. “I can’t make up my mind. What are you getting?”
On the menu is an assortment of burgers, fries, and more than two dozen types of hot dogs and specials to choose from, including the Lord of the Rings Dog, the Mulholland Drive Dog, the Chicago Polish Dog, and the Bacon Chili Cheese Dog.
I can barely focus on the menu. I don’t know if it’s because I can’t stop thinking about the way Angela looked at me with her haunted eyes and asked me who she was or because it’s been more than two weeks since I’ve injected an Ego and I’m going through withdrawals, but I seem to have trouble making even the smallest of decisions. Like ordering lunch.
Nat looks away from the menu, then nudges me and nods toward the back of the line. “Hey, I’d like to give her a chili cheese dog.”
Nat really needs to work on his sexual metaphors.
I look behind us and see a tall brunette with olive-colored skin standing by herself and studying the menu, her arms crossed. The international sign for Leave Me Alone, I’m Not Interested.
With her exotic complexion, shoulder-length hair, full pouty lips, and supermodel figure, she’s not only out of Nat’s league, she’s out of his galaxy. We’re talking supernova gorgeous. Even the men standing near her don’t know whether to look at her in awe or look away for fear of going blind. Or getting slapped by their girlfriends.
“I’m sure a lot of guys would like to give her a chili cheese dog,” I say. “But most of them would . . .”
And I can’t think of an analogy that doesn’t make me want to throw up in my mouth.
“Hold that thought,” says Nat.
He steps out of line and walks toward the back, right up to the brunette, and starts chatting her up. I’m not sure who’s more shocked by this—the brunette, me, or everyone else in line. I watch as she nods hesitantly and seems a little put off by Nat’s aggressive entry into her atmosphere, but then she smiles and unfolds her arms and, after another thirty seconds or so, offers up a small laugh. They chat for a bit longer, then she extends her right hand and Nat takes it, holds it briefly while shaking it, then he gives her hand back along with his card and returns to me.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
I nod toward the supernova brunette. “The way you handled her was not the Nat I know.”
“You’re thinking of the old Nat,” he says. “This is the new and improved Nat, with more Nat in every serving.”
Whatever that means.
I glance back at the brunette, who is looking our way. And she’s most definitely not looking at me.
“Did you get her number?” I ask.
“I don’t need her number.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll call me.”
“What makes you think she’ll call?”
He looks up at the menu. “I just know.”
I stare at Nat and realize just how much he’s changed. Although he’s not under the influence right now, it’s apparent that us
ing Egos has given Nat a newfound confidence. And not only with women.
“I’m thinking about changing jobs,” he says as we approach the front of the line.
“To what?”
Nat has never thought about changing his hairstyle, let alone how he earns a living, so I have a hard time believing it’s anything more than just a thought.
“I was thinking of applying for an administrative job at one of the local universities.”
“A university?” I say. “Are you qualified?”
“No. But I know I can do the job.”
Just like he knows he can do the brunette.
“I don’t think you can just apply for a job at a university,” I say. “I’m pretty sure you need a master’s degree.”
“What are you? Donnie Downer?”
“I’m just being practical.”
“Screw practical. No one ever got anywhere in life by being practical.”
While I’m pretty sure I can prove Nat wrong, right now I can’t think of any examples.
“Besides, you always told me to be the person I always wanted to be,” he says. “Play the role I was meant to play.”
My father’s words coming back to haunt me.
“So now that I’m ready to play that role, you’re telling me I should just keep doing what I’ve been doing?” he says.
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
We move closer to the order counter as the other customers in line pretend to ignore us. I can’t tell Nat about the antidote or about my concerns for his physical safety, so I keep playing the vague card.
“I just think you need to consider the consequences before you jump into anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he says. “You’re earning a six-figure salary with stock options and a five-figure annual bonus. So don’t talk to me about considering my options.”
And that’s the end of that conversation.
When we finally get up to the window, Nat orders two chili cheese dogs and a Coke while I finally decide on the Chicago Polish Dog with an order of chili fries and an Orange Crush. In line behind us, I keep catching the brunette glancing our way.
Once we get our food, we sit down at one of the tables out back. “So where are you getting your Egos?” I ask.
“What does it matter?” he says, around a mouthful of chili cheese dog.
“Because if you’re getting them off the street, they’re not safe.”
“According to who?”
“According to whom,” I say.
“What are you? My copy editor? Come on, bro. No one talks that way in real life.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “The point is they’re not safe. In more ways than one.”
“Who says?”
To be honest, most of the questions about the safety of black market Egos have come from studies backed by experts and scientists on the EGOS payroll. While the studies are based on sound data, they’re not exactly unbiased.
“Trust me,” I say. “If you’re getting them off the street, then you don’t know what you’re getting.”
“My connection guarantees the quality is good,” says Nat. “He assures me they come from the factory.”
“Of course he says that. What else is he going to tell you? That they’re made in an apartment in Compton that doubles as a meth lab?”
And that’s not too far from the truth. Although unauthorized Egos aren’t made with ingredients like propane, paint thinner, chloroform, and Freon, long-term users of Egos sold on the black market can develop symptoms similar to crystal meth addicts that include psychosis, paranoia, hallucinations, obsessive-compulsive behavior, memory loss, and delusions.
Or worse.
“I’m not an idiot.” Nat finishes his first chili cheese dog and starts in on the second. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Not this time,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t explain it to you,” I say.
“Why not? Do you think I’m too stupid to figure it out?”
The people at the nearby tables look over at us. Not that I mind being the center of attention, but this isn’t exactly a conversation I want to have in public.
“It’s not that,” I say, lowering my voice. “It’s just . . . never mind.”
“Come on,” he says. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you don’t think I can make my own decisions,” he says. “That I can’t solve my own problems. That without you I couldn’t think my way out of a fucking nursery rhyme.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“Well, not word for word,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“Fuck you, bro.”
The people who were looking over at us are now trying to pretend that we don’t exist.
“You know, the only reason I tried Egos in the first place was because I thought it was the only way we could stay friends,” says Nat. “But now, I don’t even know if I want to be your friend anymore.”
“Nat, come on . . .”
“And in spite of what you might think, you’re not any smarter than me. And you sure as hell don’t know what I want or what I need. This is my life, not yours. I can make my own decisions.”
“You have to trust me,” I say. “It’s not safe for you to buy black market Egos. You have no idea what might happen to you if you keep using them.”
“Thanks for the concern,” he says. “But I’ll take my chances.”
Then he gets up and storms away from the table, leaving my concerns and his half-eaten chili cheese dog behind.
CHAPTER 31
My . . . crew . . . is . . . nowhere to be found.
Captain’s Log, stardate 2021. I have entered a . . . gathering of some sort . . . a party . . . in a three-story Spanish-style home on Roxbury Road, just off the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood. There’s . . . no sign of Spock or Bones . . . or the rest of my crew. I don’t know where . . . they are but . . . I don’t have the time . . . to wait for them.
I turn off the recorder on my communicator and walk through an arched doorway from the formal dining room into the breakfast room, then through another archway and into the den and bar area, which contains a number of men and women engaged in various acts of frivolity.
Drinking. Smoking. Flirting. Laughing.
Clark Kent and Peter Parker are putting the moves on a barely clothed Nova from Planet of the Apes, who is flashing a lot of skin in her furry bikini and not saying much of anything. Quiet. Thoughtful. The kind of woman I can appreciate.
I find her . . . most uncommon.
Nearby, looking somewhat put out, Lois Lane and Mary Jane Watson watch their dates, drinking Manhattans and giving Nova the stink eye.
“It’s a madhouse!” screams a drunken Taylor, who comes streaking through the room being chased by some guy in a gorilla suit. “A madhouse!”
While I appreciate his passion, that guy is such an overactor.
At the bar, Doc Brown and Doctor Who are discussing time travel over a bottle of scotch while Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor arm wrestle to see which one of them gets to make out with Mad Max. Princess Leia relaxes on a chaise longue in her slave outfit, sipping a cocktail.
Space may be the final frontier, but I’d rather explore her strange new worlds.
“Make it so,” says a familiar voice from over in the corner, followed by a chorus of feminine laughter. I look over and see Picard entertaining a harem of women that includes Dana Scully, Buffy Summers, and Xena the Warrior Princess.
Picard sees me and gives me a nod. I nod back. But I’m just being cordial. I can’t stand Picard, the Shakespeare-quoting French prick.
I look around and see Buck Rogers, Malcolm Reynolds, Flash Gordon, and Lando Calrissian, among others. None of them is the object of this rescue mission, so I head down to check ou
t the basement. At the top of the stairs, I pass Rick Deckard and Han Solo having a heated argument. The Blade Runner has his finger in the smuggler’s face.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says Solo.
Down in the basement, a converted home movie theater with soundproof walls and oversized chairs, Trinity and Morpheus are grinding against one another in their black leather coats, their tongues giant slugs trying to escape into each other’s mouths as Neo battles Agent Smith on the 120-inch projection screen.
No one else is down here, so I head back upstairs, where Deckard and Solo are now in a shoving match. I’ve always enjoyed a good fight and I’m tempted to join in. Or else walk over and show Picard what I really think of him. I kicked his ass once and I can do it again. Instead, I ascend the circular staircase to the top floor, hoping I don’t run into Khan or a couple of Klingons or maybe even that pesky Gorn.
The first bedroom I come to is locked. I put my ear up to the door and listen, but all I hear is someone saying “Klaatu barada nikto” over and over while something that sounds like a headboard bangs repeatedly against the wall.
In the hallway I pass Wonder Woman, who is asking Luke Skywalker if he’d like to show her his light saber, and I nearly run into Neo, who is wearing his sunglasses and a foam I’m-Number-One finger on his left hand.
“Have you seen Trinity?” he asks.
“Try the basement,” I say.
“Thanks, dude.”
I consider following him down to see what happens, but I still haven’t completed my mission. And I’m concerned that if I don’t find who I’m looking for soon, there might be trouble. So I keep looking.
In the second bedroom, I find a character who appears somewhat out of place in this universe, dressed in his blue crushed-velvet suit with a frilly lace cravat and black horn-rimmed glasses. He’s in the middle of putting the moves on Barbarella, who’s wearing a sleeveless pleather leotard and black thigh-high boots.
“Are you horny, baby?” he says. “Do I turn you on?”
Not very subtle, though.
“Not really,” says Barbarella.
“Oh come on,” he says, looking her up and down. “You’re incredibly hot. I bet you shag like a minx.”
