Planet Fever (14 page)

“Who? I am Eddie Bikaver, a shitty writer from Los Angeles who seems to be suffering from a schizotemporalistic condition.” I paused. “And possibly some varying degrees of psychosis, on top of alcoholism and probably a few other things they have either not figured out or invented yet.”

He nodded, pushing his goggles up to his wrinkled forehead.

“At one point I was a bum, and I rolled with this character named Fillono, who moved out this way and founded some sort of resort art community. The reason why—”

“Whynot!” he interrupted.

“Eh—yeah—I suppose so. Why not. Nothing better to do.”

“No you rube! ‘Whynot’ is the name of the goddamned resort town Fred Fillono runs. Yeah, it’s a hoot. It’s what you’d get if you tossed
1984
and Aspen, Colorado into a blender. I was one shitsucking vote from becoming sheriff of that place. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to vote. Mescaline is a helluva drug!”

The rain began to blink on the cabin roof. My buzz was in full effect.

THE BOOZE
had taken hold, Jager was attempting to light a fire in his fireplace while I eased back, taking in the mountain evening air and listening to the millions of pellets of water frolicking, after their long skydive from the mothership storm cloud, off the roof of the Captain’s cabin. I pondered the point of view of one of those raindrops—from the sky, forming into a droplet and then go-time, the brief exhilaration upon acceleration due to gravity, looking about and seeing thousands of your fellow raindrops above, below and about you sharing the experience of a short, terminal-velocity filled existence, the earth approaching ever-so-rapidly. One last quick view of the roof, or ground, or a tree top and then “SPLAT”—back to the oneness of water.

“Rat bastard!” the Captain’s yelling shook me out of my bullshit Buddhistic meditation. He had mounted what looked to be a fumigation tank on his back, attached to the tank was some sort of spray nozzle. Upon closer view, it was no fumigation system, for on the tank, in bold black letters were written “U.S. ARMY.”

“TAKE THIS!” he shouted, and a stream of gasoline and fire spewed forth from the end of the barrel, and a whirling fireball exploded in the fireplace, shooting flames out and about the room. “SHIT!” He backed away, muttered something about Dante, then picked up a fire extinguisher he had under the table and proceeded to quell the random small fires in the room and around the fireplace—careful not to disturb the now roaring flames within the fireplace. I deduced this was standard operating procedure for this man: he was a virtuoso. The fire in the fireplace gave the place a cozy feel.

He took off the garb and tossed it into the closet. “Lieutenant Bikaver!” A fresh glass of booze slapped against my hand. “Why the hell did you take this assignment? Duty? Honor? Excitement? Free booze? Shit man, this one was so jacked I wouldn’t have taken it in my prime—and I’ve taken some weird ones!”

Jager’s face superimposed itself then separated into two. I was seeing double. I closed my right eye and saw he had taken off the scuba goggles and now studied me through tinted eyeglasses.

“Eh?” I asked.

“They got you sideways and turned around and
deep.
You’ve been
compromised.
The Honcho has notified me that you need a temporary reset, and I got just the thing!” He handed me a couple of red capsules.

“What honcho? What the hell is this?” I examined the red pill with one eye.

“Not what, man—why. Take one! Save the other for another time. You’ll need it.”

More booze, more drugs: I had gotten this far, however far this was. Once again my unbothered (or reckless) mindset had already made the decision.
Screw it.
I tossed the cap into my mouth and swallowed with a shot of Wild Turkey. I put the other one into my pocket.

“That, my friend, is a time capsule. You will see the
why
shortly.”

JAGER TOOK
away the rest of the booze and withdrew into the kitchen. My vision blurred around the room, at times gaining focus then failing. Mild butterflies fluttered about my ribcage; shadows and the orange light from the fireplace reverberated into a golden glowing hue. The table, the walls, all objects in my field of vision took forth this luminance, and the actual atmosphere of the room began to shimmer.

The intoxication of the booze melted away and was replaced by an ever-growing sensation of in-spiritedness. Though I was seated, I felt an uncanny sense of buoyancy and lightness, as though I were in a boat or possibly hot-air balloon. My vision refocused to a hyper-clarity; I could see into the essential matter of things and possibly through them.

Hallucinogens.

Did I write that, or think it, or say it?
It didn’t matter at this point—I was in deep.

L.S.D. or maybe mescaline?

Captain Jager reemerged from the kitchen with a briar pipe in his mouth.

“Powerful stuff?” I asked him, who was now just a bleary fading spot in my periphery.

My assumption was confirmed, for in the next immediate instant, I perceived myself to be in
three
locations simultaneously
in space and was somehow
outside time
….

“I’m still in the living room, but I’m also in Doktor Götzefalsch’s office.”

“Yes, Meester Beekaver? You said you are ver?” Dr. Sydney Götzefalsch is seated before me, scribbling into his pad.

“I’m here and there?”

“And?”

“I’m also somehow back in the Lay-Z-Boy lounge chair in the mysterious location—
present tense
—being asked questions by Hal, the nameless, faceless Interrogator…. Can he read my mind right now? Or does he require me to speak?”

“Pipe down, Shitbird, you don’t wanna give away everything. Someone’s gonna ask you what pill you took, probably that duplicitous Doc. Tell him a mescaline derivative.” Captain Jager lights the briar pipe and barks at me. “I know I’m lighting a pipe, you jackass! Stop narrating about me and pay attention,” he yells from his spot across the living room.

“Who are you veet, Meester Beekaver? Kant you remember hees name?”

Jager shouts, “Tell him Ronald Reagan. He’ll probably get a kick in the pants from that one.”

“The Gipper.” I answer.

“Who?” Götzefalsch asks.

“Ronald Reagan,” I say.

The Doc attempts to repress the shock registered on his face.

The Interrogator now chimes in. “
You seem to be in a confused state, Mr. Bikaver. Why have you stopped giving me past information? Are you having problems with your recall?
”

“Rat Bastard! He’s probably a dirty low-down AI,” mutters Jager.

“I know I muttered that!” says Jager.

“Get the hell out of this loop—don’t worry about what the hell
I
say right now!” yells Jager. “Or else they’ll track onto
me too.”

“Aha—I’m in a loop, and….”

“A loop, eh? Vaht sort of peel deed Meester Raygun geeve too you?” The Doc seems to have regained composure from the previous blow.

“I believe it was mescaline,” I answer.

The Doc is tsk-tsking and shaking his head. “Zat may be very contradeectory to ze other medikation you are on. I am not shure dat vas ein gut idea.”

“
Mr. Bikaver—are you having problems with your recall?
” the Interrogator repeats.

Neither the Interrogator nor Dr. Götzefalsch are aware of one another, only me, as though I were talking to each of them on two separate telephones.

“Yes—I believe the drugs Doctor Götzefalsch gave me did something—at times I would forget where I was and what I was doing—like a walking blackout.”

“
You were on your way to Fillono’s. You took a shortcut. Rain began to fall—then heavily. You almost ran your car off the road, having a ‘near death’ experience, wherein a series of memories flashed before you. Then what happened?
” The Interrogator probes for more information.

“Didn’t we already go over this?” I ask.

Wait a second. The Interrogator doesn’t know this part. Did I stop the narrative after the crash? Impossible—otherwise, how would I be where I am at now—to this very sentence in the story? I seem to have a certain power to withhold information. Hal, the Interrogator, must not have an up-to-date version of my activities. In that sense, I am free. But for how long?

“
Please explain,
” the Interrogator says.

“I can’t remember,” I say, just to say something.

“Zat vas vat I vas afraid vould happen. Ve might try ein deeferent approach.” The Doc exits the office.

I get up and go to the window. Blackness outside. Not night, just blackness. Where the hell am I? I examine my surroundings.

Something is strange—as though this is not real.

Am I on a set? I go to the door and open it. Outside there’s an empty airplane hangar—dark except for the luminance issuing forth from the Doc’s office, which I can now see is in fact an artificial set, built of plywood flats. From afar I hear the reverberation of footsteps, what I perceive to be emanating from more than one pair of shoes. Maybe three or four. Should I go back inside and play dumb or get the hell out of here? Wherever here is.

“Your call,” Captain Jager—I mean Ronald Reagan—whispers. “If you stay, who knows? If you bolt, they’ll track you down and they’ll probably make you go through all this again—ad infinitum.”

“What the hell are they
doing
?”

“Shit, man—mind surveillance. Exterminating free will. Rendering you helpless. And attempting to use you to track back to us. You’re in the lion’s den, bubba—and don’t forget that!”

I am about to ask Captain Jager another question when I hear the footsteps grow close. I slip back into the faux office and take a seat on the sofa. From outside the door, I hear the Doc’s muffled voice—and the words “bilocation”, “neo-hypnosis”, and “severe neurosis infiltration.” Another man’s voice—muffled—except for the word “invalidate.” A third muffled voice—that of a female.

“Why not
(inaudible)
another chance
(inaudible)
?” she says.

Slight argumentation, then the door opens, Dr. Sydney Götzefalsch spills in, smiling ear to ear. Trailing him is, of course, Mona Malena—blond this time, and behind her struts a dyed-in-the-wool military-looking man.

The Doc clears his throat. “Meester Beekaver, I am shure you remember your sveetheart—und dees ist Col. Vest veet dee Air Force.” He points to the military man.

Mona, as though on cue—hugs me and brandishes melodramatic tears in her soft eyes. “Oh Eddie, why? You know we care. Why mescaline?”

I’m watching a bad play in which I am taking part. Man—these people can’t even act well!

“You can write your damned review later, you abominable fall guy!” Jager, er, Reagan chimes in. “Just play along.”

“May I?” the Colonel inquires to both the Doc and Mona the blonde. They nod and Mona wipes away some tears.

West takes a knee before me, puts his hand on my shoulder and states (with counterfeit hard-boiled sympathy): “Son—you are a hero.”

WEST SPEAKS
but his words begin to turn into meaningless gibberish as his face contorts and writhes. “Yooouur goonnna berrooao mmmerrrbbb errrr….”