All but naked, I stand perfectly still and squint down at the water beneath me. I guess I look a little like one of those Acapulco cliff divers. Only I\u2019m not in Acapulco or on a cliff, and I have no intention of diving. Under the circumstances, it would be a bad idea.<\/p>\n
The name of this remarkable place is Tranquility Tanks, which is ironic, since my whole body, from my thinning hair southward to the plantar wart on my left foot, is taut with anxiety. I feel anxious as hell.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m in a small white featureless room peering down at a flotation tank. Or an isolation tank<\/em>, or a sensory deprivation tank<\/em>, as these things are sometimes called. The pool of salty water inside doesn\u2019t bubble or even move much that I can see. It does sparkle a bit. Mainly, it just lies there and waits.<\/p>\n Open, as this contraption now is, a flotation tank resembles a gaping mouth, a huge hungry mouth that can swallow a person in a single gulp. In fact, that\u2019s precisely what it\u2019s designed to do. Closed, it resembles a high-tech coffin. Neither image holds much appeal for me.<\/p>\n Beside me, my twenty-five-year old nephew Zach prods my elbow. \u201cWhadaya think, Gordie?\u201d he says. \u201cYou ready to give it a shot?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI dunno,\u201d I hedge. I\u2019m remembering a scene from the movie Altered States<\/em> in which a scientist, as a result of being in a flotation tank, devolves into an ape that runs amok, kills a sheep and eats it raw. Zach has assured me that it\u2019s unlikely I\u2019ll have a similar experience.<\/p>\n He\u2019s also assured me that people are drawn to floating for valid reasons. The theory being that if you can find the gumption to climb down inside this gizmo and lie suspended for a while on a buoyant bed of warm water, cut off from the sights, sounds and stresses of the real world, it\u2019ll do you some good. Maybe a lot of good. You\u2019ll revisit past experiences and come to understand them better; you\u2019ll explore new and exciting possibilities for the future. You\u2019ll come to recognize just who and what you are, and you\u2019ll relax<\/em>. People have been floating\u2014and supposedly benefitting from it\u2014since way back in the 1960s, long before Zach or even his parents made their earthly debut.<\/p>\n I glance over at him, and I see that he\u2019s doing more than just glancing at me. He\u2019s giving me his full-bore, straight-ahead, eyes-like-a-pair-of-blue-marbles stare<\/em>. He\u2019s a tall, plain-faced guy with acne scars and a big beak of a nose that seems to swoop down at you from the clouds. He\u2019s got a sort of scarecrow aspect to him as well, maybe because he tends to hold his graceless, scrawny frame at an odd angle, as if blown askew by a blustery wind. In recent months, following a promotion, he\u2019s taken to wearing a dress shirt and tie constantly (always a spot of ketchup on the tie). Put him in a cornfield, though, and he\u2019d still unnerve some crows. Zach means well\u2014I\u2019m OK with him\u2014but his appearance and manner aren\u2019t exactly a balm for my tension.<\/p>\n \u201cC\u2019mon, Gordie,\u201d he says. \u201cYou stand there much longer like that, you\u2019re gonna catch pneumonia.\u201d I\u2019m wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a sprinkle of goose bumps.<\/p>\n \u201cAll right, all right,\u201d I mumble. I hitch up my swimsuit (it\u2019s a Speedo brief in a pink and black floral print, utterly inappropriate for me) and make my move. \u201cLet\u2019s do this and be done with it.\u201d<\/p>\n Earplugs wedged in place, I sit down in the tank and then lie back. First thing I notice is how pleasant the water feels; at about 94 degrees, it\u2019s neither too warm nor too cool. Roughly ten inches deep, it\u2019s loaded with Epsom salts that keep me magically afloat like a large cork in a small pond. So shallow is the water, and so springy, you\u2019d have to make an all-out effort to drown in here.<\/p>\n Above me, Zach gives me a cheery thumbs-up and slowly lowers the lid; he\u2019ll come back for me in hour, assuming I care to stay that long. But now this lowered lid presents me with the second thing I notice\u2014the total, inky, uncompromising darkness that envelops me. It\u2019s a darkness so complete that I doubt I\u2019ve encountered anything like it since being nestled in my mother\u2019s womb. Usually darkness, like everything else, is imperfect; there\u2019s a glimmer of feeble light some<\/em>where.<\/p>\n But not now. Not here.<\/p>\n A curious fact. Normally I\u2019m not too fond of tight spaces. I\u2019m not claustrophobic necessarily; I just don\u2019t like tight spaces. Elevators and closets I could do without. And I\u2019m not too crazy about being in the dark either, whether literally or figuratively. But for the moment at least, against all odds, I feel pretty comfortable in this tank. Maybe it\u2019s due to the water snuggling gently all around me, or the feeling of being artlessly aloft, as if I\u2019ve been excused from the strictures of gravity.<\/p>\n So I figure I\u2019ll give this project a try, see what I can get out of it. I\u2019d love to get something out of it.<\/p>\n But what happens next? What\u2019s supposed<\/em> to happen next?<\/p>\n I honestly don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n For a while I do nothing but float, my mind a blank. This strikes me as unproductive, so I put my focus on Zach, not that I really want to. But he\u2019s the one who convinced me to come here.<\/p>\n Throughout most of his adult life, Zach was an absolute and unmitigated wreck of a human being. All he did was grow his straw-colored hair, listen to \u201cindustrial\u201d music, play hundreds of video games and use hundreds of illicit drugs. Then, without any warning that I detected, he got himself a decent haircut and got hired by McDonald\u2019s as a cashier. Soon after, he became assistant manager of the restaurant and then manager. Now, I\u2019ll admit that succeeding at McDonald\u2019s isn\u2019t equivalent to climbing the ladder at Apple or Google, but, considering his track record, I was amazed and impressed regardless, and I made a special trip to his workplace to tell him as much.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks, Gordie,\u201d he said, munching a French fry. \u201cI\u2019ve discovered the secret.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat secret?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cTo life.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFlotation,\u201d he said. \u201cYessir, life rocks when you can take a dip in your own inner sea.\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t agree with him, largely because I didn\u2019t know what he was talking about. After he explained himself and started trying to enlist me as a fellow floater, I really<\/em> didn\u2019t agree with him. I thought maybe he was back on drugs.<\/p>\n \u201cYou do what you want,\u201d I said, \u201cbut keep me out of it.\u201d The notion was just too screwy, too California, for me. \u201cNo way in hell,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n But one week to the day later, I\u2019m somewhere in the bowels of Tranquility Tanks, doing a float.<\/p>\n How\u2019s this even possible? I ask myself. Is Zach that persuasive a speaker? Or are my personal problems and my need to fix them more urgent than I realize? I\u2019m guessing it could well be the latter.<\/p>\n Because I\u2019ve got problems aplenty. Where to begin with my problems? My boss is always pressing me to \u201cdo more with less\u201d (not likely to happen), my doctor tells me I need to lose thirty pounds pronto or my heart might pop like a party balloon, and the IRS has been hounding me about certain \u201cirregularities\u201d in my tax returns from a decade ago. Those guys have a sharper memory than I<\/em> do. I also have an ex-wife who likes to call me and email me to rhapsodize about how fabulous her life is now that she\u2019s met a \u201creal man\u201d who treats her to candlelight dinners and takes her on sumptuous cruises to exotic hideaways in the lush, sun-soaked Caribbean. But since I\u2019ve started using a call blocker and changed my email address, she\u2019s been mostly under control.<\/p>\n Wish I could say the same about my boss. His name is Wes Westfall, and he presides over the governing board of the YMCA where I serve as executive director. A stout man with silver-black brilliantined hair, eyebrows so bushy you suspect chipmunks and rabbits might be hiding in them and a five o\u2019clock shadow at every hour of the day, he always addresses me in a curt, impatient tone that suggests he\u2019d rather be somewhere else, doing something vastly different. When I\u2019m with him, I generally feel the same way.<\/p>\n I can picture the two of us, in my office, having a typical back-and-forth; we\u2019ve had many of them. It\u2019s late afternoon on a rainy day. He\u2019s pacing. I\u2019m sitting.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ve gotta build our membership, Gordie,\u201d he says, his slick hair gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. \u201cOur membership\u2019s flat. It\u2019s been<\/em> flat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf we\u2019re gonna build our membership,\u201d I tell him, \u201cwe\u2019ll need to cut our fees.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, we can\u2019t afford to cut our fees till we build our membership.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWes, we can\u2019t build our membership unless we cut our fees.\u201d<\/p>\n More than annoyed, he stops pacing, eyes me critically and strokes his five o\u2019clock shadow. His fantastic eyebrows quiver at me. I get the distinct impression he\u2019d like very much to do something awful to me, though he hasn\u2019t yet figured out what, how, when or whether he could get away with it.<\/p>\n For my part, I can\u2019t figure out if this awkward scene is actually occurring or not. It all seems so vividly real\u2014my chair beneath me, my boss before me, the shape and tone of our exchange. I tap my desk with my finger, and I hear<\/em> the tap; I feel<\/em> it in my fingertip. But I\u2019m not truly in my office, am I? Of course not, I\u2019m actually\u2014<\/p>\n But here comes another twist. I can see Westfall talking to others, one after another, none of whom I\u2019ve ever met, in a series of varied settings. First he\u2019s describing to a tobacco-chomping garage mechanic an unwelcome sound his brand-new Audi SUV has been making. \u201cIt\u2019s like this,\u201d Westfall says. \u201cKa-chunga ka-chunga ka-chunga!\u201d Hopping as he makes the noise. Next he\u2019s accusing his paperboy, a high school freshman in a Ravens baseball cap, of overcharging him. They\u2019re standing near a glider on Westfall\u2019s front porch. \u201cI happen to know it\u2019s sixteen<\/em> ninety-eight,\u201d he growls, \u201cnot nineteen<\/em> ninety-eight, OK?\u201d Finally he\u2019s leaning back guiltily against his kitchen sink, attempting without success to clarify some unfortunate situation for his wife, whose mouth wouldn\u2019t be open any wider if she were singing opera. \u201cHoney,\u201d he says, \u201cI did not<\/em> put my hand on her leg. She put her leg under my hand<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n Fascinating stuff, but even it pales before the uncanny scene that unfolds next. Westfall, thank God, is gone. The location has shifted. I understand I\u2019m in the town of Sweet Lips, Tennessee, in a middle school gymnasium, and I seem to be afloat somehow at a height of maybe twenty feet. It feels natural enough. Beneath me, a dozen or so prepubescent girls, dressed for volleyball\u2014they\u2019re wearing black kneepads with a white swoosh mark\u2014are milling about. The coach, a gaunt crabby woman whose voice sounds like a late-night door creaking open, has just informed one of the girls, Bonnie, that Bonnie is being kicked off the team. Tears welling in her stricken eyes, the girl appears shocked.<\/p>\n \u201cBut why?\u201d Bonnie asks. \u201cI didn\u2019t do anything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou did so,\u201d the coach creaks. \u201cYou pushed Emma from behind and knocked her down. Just look at her.\u201d<\/p>\n One of the other girls, who seems almost as miserable as Bonnie, has bright red blood trickling from her nose.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t do that,\u201d Bonnie says.<\/p>\n \u201cThen who did?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2014I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou did it,\u201d the coach insists. \u201cI watched you. And you\u2019re off the team!\u201d<\/p>\n Sensing an injustice, and calling on powers I never knew I had, I\u2019m able to replay the incident in question as if it were on videotape. I do it simply by willing it. There\u2019s the push\u2014Bonnie wasn\u2019t the culprit; another girl was!\u2014and the stupid coach wasn\u2019t watching at all but was instead staring down entranced at her cellphone! Just because I can, I replay the incident twice more, and each time Bonnie is innocent.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat am I gonna do?\u201d she sobs, wandering off by herself. \u201cMy parents are gonna kill me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou just tell \u2019em the truth,\u201d I advise her.<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019ll never believe me,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n \u201cSooner or later the facts\u2019ll come out. Tell \u2019em the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n Now she pauses, frowns, lifts her head and blinks up at me, more curious than frightened. \u201cWho are you?<\/em>\u201d she asks. \u201cAnd what\u2019re you doing floating around up there?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoesn\u2019t matter,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cHow do you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoesn\u2019t matter. Take my advice, and everything\u2019ll work out.\u201d<\/p>\n Suddenly a burst of white light explodes in my face, and for a moment I\u2019m stunned. \u201cWhoa,\u201d I say. At last I recognize that Zach has opened the tank; the glare that\u2019s erupted at me is the everyday light of the room.<\/p>\n \u201cRise and shine,\u201d he says, his beak of a nose bearing down at me. \u201cHow\u2019d it go?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHas it been an hour already?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSixty minutes on the dot.\u201d<\/p>\n I sit up, and he tosses me a towel. \u201cMan\u2014felt like ten seconds.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo how was it?\u201d<\/p>\n Following my own principle, I tell him the truth. \u201cIt was wild, Zach. Kinda fun, too.\u201d I share with him some of the details, but not all of them. I\u2019m already thinking of my adventure, at bottom, as a personal one.<\/p>\n \u201cHow do you feel?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTremendous,\u201d I say. I\u2019m relaxed and energized at the same time, as if I\u2019d just had incredible sex.<\/p>\n Zach nods and smiles. \u201cThere\u2019s more coming. Wait till you dig the afterglow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe afterglow?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And so I do. Driving home, I seem to have a whole new read on the world, a new appreciation. Everything around me is so fresh and vibrant and delightful. Colors are more intense\u2014red is now red!<\/em>\u2014common objects such as birds, traffic signs and buildings strike me as splendid and unique, and even ordinary sounds intrigue me. The hum of my engine, honks from other cars and the wail of a distant siren have taken on an almost musical quality. After their forced blackout, my senses are back with a gleeful vengeance.<\/p>\n What a boost to my attitude! At one point I notice a little old blue-haired lady wobbling out of a corner grocery with a hefty bag. Nothing else I can possibly do but pull over, park and offer to help her.<\/p>\n \u201cMa\u2019am, it\u2019s your lucky day,\u201d I beam at her, holding out my hands. \u201cYour knight in shining armor has arrived.\u201d<\/p>\n She tilts back her head, locks her eyes on mine and says: \u201cGet the hell away from me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUm\u2014you misunderstand.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d she corrects me, \u201cyou<\/em> misunderstand. I\u2019ll kick you right in the jewels.\u201d<\/p>\n Well, it may not be the response I\u2019d hoped for, but so what? Hey, she\u2019s a tough one. I like her moxie. I like everything. Everything\u2019s fine.<\/p>\n And everything stays fine for a while. During this time life smells pretty fragrant to me even if the basic facts that comprise it haven\u2019t really changed. Even my hours at the Y are feeling better spent and somewhat satisfying. I decide to try a warmer, more open, more empathetic approach with folks who inquire, however remotely, about a membership.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat all do I get for my money?\u201d one gentleman asks me.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat all do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I don\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust name it,\u201d I say. \u201cWe aim to please.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOK.\u201d He\u2019s got a grin flickering on his lips that threatens to detonate into loud taunting laughter in the next five seconds. \u201cHow about . . . anytime I want to visit the Y, you pick me up in your car and chauffeur me. And when I\u2019m done, you take me back home again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou got it,\u201d I say, and his devilish grin morphs into a look of astonishment.<\/p>\n \u201cYou serious?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHere\u2019s my card.\u201d I hand it to him. \u201cGive me a call and I\u2019ll be there.\u201d<\/p>\n I tell Zach about the post-float high, and he smiles, tilts his scarecrow length toward me and squeezes my shoulder. I also tell him when, after a few days, the euphoria gradually fades away, and I go back to being my usual saturnine self. Tight. Anxious. Moody. Maybe it shouldn\u2019t, but it bothers me to look, for example, at a door and see merely a door<\/em> rather than, say, a shimmering portal to another reality.<\/p>\n \u201cGuess we\u2019re due for another float,\u201d he says, and I heartily agree.<\/p>\n As before, we go together. We float simultaneously and use a timer to alert us when an hour has passed. He has his favorite tank, and I have mine. In fact, he\u2019s gone so far as to name his; he calls it, or her, \u201cLulu.\u201d Sometimes I think about naming mine too, but I haven\u2019t, and I doubt I will. Not my style. In any case, at least twice a week we make the trip to Tranquility Tanks and get recharged and refortified. Heckle and Jeckle, man. Frick and Frack.<\/p>\n And for a time, life is very mellow.<\/p>\n Maybe too mellow? When things go wrong, as sometimes they will, I can no longer see the value in overreacting\u2014or in reacting much at all. It\u2019s as if I\u2019m floating along on my own pink puffy little cloud of good faith and optimism. Day before yesterday my doctor informed me I\u2019ve got all sorts of numbers going up that need to be going down. Blood sugar. Blood pressure. My weight, of course; I\u2019m carrying some choice beef.<\/p>\n \u201cGordie,\u201d he said, studying me over the top of his half-rim reading glasses, \u201cthis isn\u2019t something you can just shrug off, you hear me?\u201d<\/p>\n I waved my hand at him. \u201cDoesn\u2019t do to worry,\u201d I said, just shrugging the bad news off.<\/p>\n Yesterday I received a call from a man who identified himself as a Special Agent of the IRS. In a not too genial voice, he told me I would soon be facing formal charges for what he claimed is tax fraud. He suggested I hire myself a lawyer.<\/p>\n \u201cI appreciate your kindness,\u201d I said, \u201cin giving me a heads-up. I hope we can get this mess straightened out. And may God bless you.\u201d<\/p>\n Issues have popped up at work, too. This just in today: An auditor has discovered that one of my staff has, over a period of years, embezzled tens of thousands of dollars from the Y\u2019s coffers. I knew nothing about it, but some people, Wes Westfall for one, think maybe I should\u2019ve. When I learned about the theft this morning, my response was rather low-key. \u201cHey, c\u2019mon,\u201d I said. \u201cTake it easy. It\u2019s only money.\u201d At which point Westfall, his face flushed and his breath short, looked as if he wanted to have a heart attack but couldn\u2019t. On some level, he probably would\u2019ve been pleased<\/em> to have a heart attack. What he could<\/em> do, however, was suspend me indefinitely without pay. That much he did, and he did so briskly and at high volume.<\/p>\n He fired the staffer, and it occurs to me I may wind up getting fired myself. (If I do, I suppose I could always find work at McDonald\u2019s. Zach would hire me.)<\/p>\n Because of my newfound calmness, none of these developments troubles me too much. Yet I\u2019m able to grasp that perhaps they should<\/em> be troubling me, at least a tad, especially when considered in their full scope and tonnage. This strange paradox itself troubles me, and so off I go for another float, hoping to soothe and clear my mind.<\/p>\n For once I go without Zach, since this figures to be the granddaddy of all floats. Longer than an hour. Two, three hours\u2014whatever it takes. And when the visions come, the episodes, call them what you will, I intend to ride them like a magic carpet as far as I can, in whichever direction they might take me.<\/p>\n A float to end them all.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Anytime I\u2019m adrift on my inner sea, I\u2019m unable to feel where my body begins and where it ends, or even if<\/em> it ends. On and on it seems to go through the black, measureless void, filling the universe. Becoming the universe. The sensation is empowering, intoxicating.<\/p>\n O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space<\/em>. . . .<\/p>\n Who gave us those deathless words? Someone way above average, yes, but I can\u2019t recall who. I don\u2019t think it was Marcus Aurelius, the last of the Roman Empire\u2019s Five Good Emperors, though he\u2019d certainly been capable. After all, he was renowned not just as a noble leader but as a philosopher-king, and there never have been too many of those about.<\/p>\n What would it be like, I wonder, to meet with Marcus Aurelius? Wearing a polo shirt, blue jeans and penny loafers, I stand before him in some marbled chamber. He runs his pupilless eyes over my duds and stoically\u2014meditatively\u2014asks me where I\u2019m from. I\u2019m about to answer him but find I\u2019m confused by the question of language. Did he just speak to me in Latin or in English? Am I to speak to him in English or in Latin? He doesn\u2019t know the one language, and I don\u2019t know the other. And yet . . . He continues to regard me as the scene dissolves. . . .<\/p>\n Actually, we do have one philosopher-king I can think of\u2014Bob Dylan\u2014and he\u2019s being discussed vigorously at this moment by two English professors at a coffee shop in Urbana, Illinois. I\u2019m seated at a table next to theirs, sipping some cappuccino and listening in.<\/p>\n The first professor, Dr. Lloyd Harper, reminds me somewhat of Wes Westfall\u2014not a favorable sign. He\u2019s got graying hair, an aggressive voice and a wide body that sits there like an overstuffed chair. He seems personally offended that Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. \u201cWhy, Dylan\u2019s not even a writer,\u201d Harper says dismissively. \u201cHe\u2019s a songster<\/em>, Katherine.\u201d<\/p>\n The other professor, Dr. Katherine Keene, is younger and trimmer\u2014she\u2019s built like a whippet\u2014but no less assertive with her opinions. She tosses her plaid scarf back over her shoulder and leans in. \u201cLloyd,\u201d she says, \u201che\u2019s more than a writer; he\u2019s a literary artist!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh my God! Have you actually sat down and read his lyrics? Philip Larkin called them \u2018half-baked.\u2019 \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, Philip Larkin was half-baked. Dylan\u2019s lyrics are rich and intricate. Some of them hark back beautifully to the classics, to Homer and Ovid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd when you reflect on the marvelous writers who haven\u2019t<\/em> won a Nobel Prize\u2014Joyce and Nabokov and Updike . . .\u201d Harper shakes his head.<\/p>\n \u201cDylan was the Voice of a Generation,\u201d Keene submits. \u201cHe influenced millions of people, including other artists. Say what you want, Lloyd; the man and his work are out of this world.\u201d<\/p>\n A captivating debate, but something in that phrase out of this world<\/em> is having an almost chemical effect on me. Out of this world<\/em> . . .<\/p>\n Abruptly I\u2019m poised at the controls of a small saucerlike craft skimming through the skies of Europa, the Jovian moon where scientists think alien life may exist. Instruments beep at me, and the round, streaked, incalculable mass of Jupiter hangs above me. No sign of life yet. If it\u2019s here at all, it may be down there swimming in the uncharted oceans that flow beneath the moon\u2019s frozen surface. Somehow I don\u2019t feel like going down to check. Can you imagine what marine life on Europa might be like? I can\u2019t, but I doubt I\u2019d find it agreeable.<\/p>\n But now something horrible happens. For no apparent reason, the engines lock up and then cut out. The craft, dead as a cinder, is plunging helplessly toward the moon\u2019s surface. An enormous fissure yawns beneath me, and I\u2019m hurtling straight for it. Within that fissure lies the ocean. When I strike it, will I survive the impact? Will I float? Or will I continue my spiraling, heart-stopping plunge? And what sort of nightmarish creatures will swarm around me to investigate? To poke at the craft? To rip it apart?<\/p>\n Oh no. Oh God.<\/p>\n Why did I ever leave the Earth?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Or did<\/em> I leave the Earth? If I did, I\u2019m back on my home planet now.<\/p>\n I\u2019m sitting in a McDonald\u2019s, possibly Zach\u2019s, though he\u2019s nowhere in sight. But I\u2019m not alone. Sitting across from me, her clear brown eyes watching my every blink, tic, glance and smile, is Bonnie, the young volleyball player. Except now she isn\u2019t quite as young as before. I\u2019d peg her as being in her late (and lovely) thirties. I understand she\u2019s a doctor, an esteemed surgeon; she\u2019s also the person I\u2019m closest to in life.<\/p>\n We\u2019re in love with each other.<\/p>\n We\u2019ve just finished lunch, and afternoon sunlight is streaming through the tall wide windows. In the background Bob Dylan is singing \u201cLay, Lady, Lay,\u201d which I consider a charming touch. Moreover, my intuition tells me that certain people\u2014my boss, my doctor, my IRS agent, my ex-wife\u2014don\u2019t exist here. Not just in the restaurant, but in this realm. They\u2019ve been relegated to somewhere else, and this too is a charming touch. A yellow balloon, its string dangling, bobs along the ceiling.<\/p>\n \u201cLately,\u201d I muse, \u201cI\u2019ve been traveling a lot.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know,\u201d Bonnie says.<\/p>\n \u201cBut I like being here with you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGordie, I like having you here.\u201d<\/p>\n I can feel her gaze as it links with mine; it feels warm and soft, like a summer breeze.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going to ask you something,\u201d I say. \u201cWill you tell me the truth?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI always tell the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlways?\u201d<\/p>\n She nods. \u201cWhen I was a kid, there was . . . an incident. I, uh, I was playing volleyball . . . I always tell the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI like it here,\u201d I say again. \u201cI\u2019d like to stay here. Bonnie, do you think it\u2019s possible?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course it is.\u201d<\/p>\n I mull this over. \u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n She shrugs. \u201cYou just stay. That\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can do that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you want to.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHuh. Back where I\u2019m from, won\u2019t it . . .\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCreate a stir?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes it matter?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen stay.\u201d<\/p>\n I do my best to weigh the alternatives, the repercussions. It isn\u2019t easy, but then nothing ever is. I take a breath and take her hand. We stand up together. \u201cLet\u2019s go somewhere,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnywhere. Acapulco.\u201d We move toward the glass door, toward the streaming sunlight.<\/p>\n \u201cAcapulco?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m game,\u201d she laughs.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd we won\u2019t even have to fly.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUh-uh.\u201d I draw her against my side and lower my voice to a whisper. \u201cWe\u2019ll just close our eyes, Bonnie . . . and relax . . . and let our dreams float us away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou think that\u2019ll work?\u201d<\/p>\n I give her a wink. \u201cWorks for me.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" And everything stays fine for a while.\u00a0During this time life smells pretty fragrant to me even if the basic facts that comprise it haven\u2019t really changed.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":17201,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17192","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-greg-jenkins"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17192","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17192"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17192\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17202,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17192\/revisions\/17202"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17201"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17192"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17192"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17192"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}