Planet Fever (16 page)

“Eh—yeah. Sorry about that. As you know, my mind wanders.” The pressure dissipates and the ringing fades. Much better. “What was the question?”

“What happened on the way to Fillono’s?”
It asks,
not
from within my mind.

MY HEAD
pounded and occasional drops of rain clinked on the metal roof of the pick-up. Upon opening my eyes, I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t driven over a cliff.

My location: the middle of a “washout” area/utility road on the pass. A half-pitched orange tent flapped around in the cool mountain breeze like a bizarre flag. Someone had aborted pitching it midway. That someone was me, I deduced—for my shoes, pants and flannel shirt were caked in mud.

On the seat there was an empty bottle of Wild Turkey, my little first-aid kit with all the contents spilled out, an empty pill container, and a feather. The rearview yielded more clues of what had happened: a welt on my forehead. I had hit my head either during the spinout or after, and at some point I had consumed a fifth of booze, attempted to set up the tent, and ended up passing out in the cab of my pick-up.

I got out, walked over to a tree, leaned one arm against it and vomited under the canopy of the large Douglass firs swaying in their steady, nonchalant magnificence. For a brief second, I wished I could join this tree’s kingdom
plantae
.

Another memory from the night prior flashed into my mind: my conversation with this tree whilst attempting to pitch the tent. This giant tree had learned of the top-secret operation I had undertaken and was privy to the fact that I was a deep-cover operative who had infiltrated a high-level, multi-galactic cabal that had—via stealth—snatched all the earth, the land, the airwaves and the spectra in which thought-operations occurred. In other words, I was spying on the N(ai)IS.

I recalled the tree absorbing what I was saying, then with a stoic casualness stating,
“Heard it all before, pal.”

I found a stream and splashed ice-cold water over my face and head, then rinsed out my mouth. Feeling a little more alert, I went back to my half-baked campsite, grabbed the tent and tossed it in the truck bed.

It was time to continue my journey, but my keys were missing. I checked the glove box, under the seats, the visors, the ground and the vicinity. I had a hazy memory of throwing them off into the wilderness after my conversation with the tree, but I wasn’t about to root around looking for them. Instead, I got a flat-head screwdriver and removed the steering wheel cover to unscrew the ignition plug. The plug dangled from the unit, and I shoved the screwdriver in and gave it a turn. Miraculously, the truck started up.

I continued on my way to Fillono’s Utopia.

THE ROAD
was wet, but manageable. I drove easy, admiring the splendor of the mountains. The pass winded its way downward and the valley floor had a majestic array of yellow and white wildflowers, green grass and trees. These juxtaposed themselves to their jettisoning, white-capped and barren-topped Rocky Mountains—one of which I was traveling down….

The sun poked through the clouds and it was around noon when I rounded the last bend of the pass and saw a rustic wooded sign on the side of road reading:
Whynot—1 mile
. I grabbed a pair of aviator sunglasses from the visor and figured I was about ninety seconds away.

Around the count of eighty-eight seconds a hand-painted sign pointed to the turn-off. I veered off the highway and drove up the side road that was enclosed on either side by giant fir trees. The road continued for a half-mile before it reached a fork with a sign right in the middle:

I turned right and trucked toward a traffic gate, where there was a guy with disheveled blond hair wearing a mountain vest and painter’s pants, along with clutter boots with long red laces.

He exited the booth and smiled an
Esquire-
wristwatch-ad-model smile. “How’s it goin’ bud? You just here for the day or longer?”

“Uh—I was hoping I could talk to an old pal of mine who lives here. Fred Fillono.”

“Oh, right on…. You’re buds with the lead dog—nice. Tell you what—follow this road, and when you see a sign that says
Longer
follow that. Buck will tell you where to park your truck and get you all set up at the info shack. You’ll be good to go. I’ll talkie him now to let him know. Cool?”

“Yeah—cool.”

The surveillance camera at the booth didn’t unsettle me, but the array of them on either side of the road pointing in every direction raised my curiosity. Was this an extended, on-going Fillono “film” project—an ever-filming multivalent art-piece, or had Fillono become highly paranoid? Maybe both—or perhaps one in the guise of another.

At the next fork was a sign that read:
One day stay: left. Longer: right.

I took the exit that said
Longer
and drove into a parking area manned by a dude in a large ten-gallon hat, a yellow and black flannel shirt and pointy-toed cowboy boots, who I assumed was Buck.

His glare was like a diamond drill-bit boring into me. “What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a black cowboy before?”

“No—I never really thought about it….”

“Ahh, I’m just messin’ around. Greetings. How you doing?” His polished grin forced me to smile. “Let’s get you wheeled over to the parking garage and you can go ahead and meet me over in there—where it says
Info
.” He pointed to a round cabin structure that once served as a lift-ticket office.

IN THE
office, “EZ Buck”—who informed me was short for Ezekiel Buckminster—had me fill out a survey that posed questions such as “what are your five favorite films,” “who are your five favorite painters,” “do you believe photography to be an art form,” “how long do you plan on staying with us” and “please list any skills you have.” For that one I put “writing,” “collecting recyclables” and “changing oil in motor vehicles.” That simple question compelled me to recognize the veritable uselessness I offered to our species.

Only three measly skills.

With the first—writing—I was a hack; the second—collecting recyclables—wasn’t really a skill; and the third—oil changing—well, probably was the only
valuable and decent
handiness I had. Oil needed to be changed from time to time. Twenty-nine years on this planet and that was it.

Pathetic.

I hadn’t thought about how long I was going to stay at the mountain resort. I didn’t have much money, and I didn’t want to assume Fillono would be comping my visit.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying … what are your rates anyhow?”

EZ Buck grinned. “Rates? As in the ratio of cash-to-time? Abstract-circulating-agreed-upon-medium-of-exchange to an abstract-system-of-those-sequential-relations that any event has to any other, as past, present, or future … indefinite and continuous duration regarded as that in which events succeed one another? And if time is money like some say, then the concept of rate doesn’t make any sense—you’d be saying hours-per-hours or dollars-per-dollars … so really nothing is fluid in an ideational capital universe. You feel me?”

“Eh—let me rephrase the question. What do I have
to do
to stay here?”

EZ Buck’s grin turned into a wide smile. “
Do.
Now we’re spittin’ the same vernacular.”

I FILLED
out the rest of the menial paperwork and signed a contract authorizing any likeness of me photographed and/or videotaped on the premises could be used for any purposes commercial and/or otherwise and were sole property of Whynot Enterprises LLC.

EZ snapped an ID picture of me, then handed me a watch and clasped it around my wrist. “You’re officially
dialed in.
Under no circumstances are you to remove this gear, got it?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s take the tour.”

We stepped outside and EZ led the way.

The place had been—and still was, to a certain extent—a medium-sized ski resort. Outside the “Info Shack” and over a quaint bridge there was the town square. The thoroughfares were cobblestone and decorated by random “avant-garde” sculptures. Many college-aged girls and guys sauntered about the tiny shops and cafes that peppered the perimeter. Rows upon rows of one-, two- and three-storied Alps-lodge styled architecture abounded, all laced with miscellaneous forms of expressive painting … and cameras were mounted
everywhere.

The cameras themselves were pieces of funky art, with alien “grays” and caricatures of safari explorers painted on them, or ironic mottos such as “Big Brother Isn’t Watching You,” “Smile!” and “Lookin’ Good” scrawled about. One camera was painted in the likeness of a six-shooter, another a penis, and yet another as Bob Hope.

A monolithic sculpture reminiscent of Rodin’s
The Thinker
presided over the center of the square. Rather than the pondering repose it was known for, the sculpture of this figure held both hands outward, shrugging its shoulders. Instead of marble and bronze, a cacophony of scrap-metal and discarded plastics fashioned this statue, and it was adorned with a bunch of square-inched mirrors, like a disco ball.

Buck notified me “The Shrugger” was crafted by an avant-garde sculptor named Marcel “the Champ” as a token of good gesture toward the resort-collective-utopia. Upon closer examination I saw the figure was seated on a giant apple with two bites in it. A small placard on the right heel of the statue read: Dedicated to Adam and Eve—thank you very much for your folly. —M