Planet Fever (3 page)

I closed my eyes.

“AND WHAT
did she say to you after she woke up
?” An unseen voice with a hollow cadence interrogates me. He sounds like the calm-voiced computer “HAL” from the film
2001: A Space Odyssey
.

The room is absent of any source of light, yet I can see my own body. I can’t decipher whether or not any walls or ceiling exist here, but I do sense an overwhelming vastness of space in this strange venue. I’m in a Lay-Z-Boy recliner. Not restrained, but somehow unable to move. Contentment and utter comfort pour over my being: I could spend an eternity in this recliner….

A complete awareness of my own past, present and future swarms within my head. My tenure as a human being is before me—in my mind—like a slide show that entails every physical and mental instance of my life. Time seems non-existent, or at least irrelevant.

I ponder my interrogator’s question, “…what did she say to you after she woke up?”

“HEY … ARE
you okay?”

I opened my eyes to find the girl waving her hand in my face.

Blond hair, blue eyes, no makeup and completely beautiful.

I blinked, scanning the room of my place. She had put on one of my button-up long-sleeved shirts, which almost covered up half her body.

“Are you sick?” she asked.

“Uh … no. I don’t think so.”

The Blonde grinned. “You look out of it. Do you even remember anything from last night?”

Anything relative to last night was a complete blackout. I still couldn’t place the girl, how I had met her, what we—or anyone else—had talked about “last night” and moreover, what the hell was going on inside my noggin.

“I believe I got boozed up. To be honest with you, I can’t remember a damn thing— none the less who you are.”

“Wow, they did do a number on you. It’s all right, that’s why I’m here. And you’re right. You were really drunk last night. Couldn’t even read your stuff. You almost spilled beer all over your work-in-progress.”

Ah yes. My “work-in-progress.” It had been a while since I had contributed a single word to my pile of shit attempt at that “post-modern” novel I had been chipping away at for way too many moons. Wasn’t I supposed to work on that thing last night?

…AND I
am completely burned-out. The words “fuck you” seem to have replaced “thank you” and “how are you?” in social pleasantries etiquette. It’s a lot easier to flip someone off or blast the car horn than it is to display simple courtesy and respect these days.

Crude arrogance, low-rent machismo and mean cynicism are chic.

Declarations of war are more exciting than allowing someone to merge into traffic.

Bullets outweigh love letters. They travel at a greater velocity and are much more poignant, also. (What else can I say?)

“Hey barkeep, gimme another then another and at least seventeen more after that … I’m gonna be here for awhile.”

Then she struts in. Legs. Body. Face. Brain. Eyes. Lips. You know the rest.

She performs an all-inclusive scan of the place. Her gaze hones in on me, she approaches, and sits down and tells me my life story.

THE STORY CUTS TO:

A field on the outskirts of town.

A podium sits in the field. Lights are amassed. THE REPORTER scribbles frantically into his notebook. THE RINGLEADER (clad in an outfit of a decorated World War II four-star General) approaches the podium and begins his spiel, which is heard in the background.

“This time he has gone too far….” THE REPORTER scribbles into his notebook.

NEXT, THE STORY CUTS TO:

The interior of a dive bar. It is night.

In a booth at the back of the bar, THE REPORTER is seated, along with THE BRUNETTE and THE BOYFRIEND. They are all loaded.

THE REPORTER rants: “Filing a declaration of war against the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate at this point in time is like attempting to go into battle armed with only a fork and a mule against a Roman legion. I mean, the N(aI)IS is at least as big as history. Shit.”

THE BRUNETTE is intrigued. She leans in closer to THE REPORTER. “I’ve never heard of them … the—what did you call it?”

THE REPORTER is oblivious to the fact that this young woman seems to be flirting with him. He gives them the lowdown: “The New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate—or N(aI)IS—is a treasonous, secret group that controls the planet Earth, as well as a small section of the Andromeda Galaxy. These nameless, faceless yet rich and powerful interstellar business barons are attempting to expand their market to entail the entire Milky Way. Planet Earth is to be their founding base of investment in this Galaxy because of its fantastic location. This syndicate has acquired all of the rights to all of the airwaves, brainwaves, thoughts, subliminal space/time, dream-making studios, fantasy rights, impromptu daydream clubs, the blueprints for the “American Dream,” a gated resort community in Los Cabos, and a plush getaway retreat in Barrow, Alaska.

THE BOYFRIEND (who happens to be clad in a classy black three-piece suit, far too overdressed for the dive bar, if you ask me) says, “Hey, man—are you hitting on my lady?”

“What?! Piss off!” says THE REPORTER

THE BOYFRIEND clubs THE REPORTER over the head with his beer mug, knocking him out.

AND NOW THE NARRATIVE DISSOLVES TO:

THIS VERY NOVEL! (work with me, dear reader –- fingers crossed that it’ll make sense when all is said and done)

CHAPTER CALLED (Undercover Repart*: General of Inane to Make Bold Move) *fix spelling

Back in the camp on the outskirts of town, FROWARD MORONI (aka. THE RINGLEADER) is in his camper, going over his speech. He was one of the few who had gained access into the dealings of the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate, because he had once been an esteemed member of their organization. For some time, he was trying to disguise his own plot to “bring down” the Big Shots. He had all his thoughts cloaked and forged, his subliminal mind counterfeited, and his dreams purchased via the black market.

One night, however, a telepathic sweep (of which he was unaware) was conducted over the entire globe. Too bad the sweep occurred while he was in the vulnerable state between sleep and consciousness, and some of his “real” thoughts were picked up on mind-radar. Aware now of his treasonous nature, the trackers for the Really Big Brothers—the hired muscle of the N(aI)IS—mandated a subliminal APB on him. Luckily, he escaped via the “slurred tunnel” (a state of mind in which the subject must find a park bench, ally, or “out of the way” space in any large metropolis and proceed to get blind-stinking drunk. While in this state it is impossible for Mind Scanners to get any clear and accurate description, or reading, of the drunkard’s psyche. They are passed over as inconspicuous inebriates aware of nothing in particular or as nebulous blips on the mind screens…).

While in this condition he maintained a low profile and began conducting sermons to his fellow drunken bums on the underhanded, subversive takeover of their beloved little planet by the Clandestine, interstellar Monopolists. Within the last year he had assembled a small platoon of freshly enlightened, houseless non-materialists, known to most people as “transients” or “bums.”

Perhaps the booze and his intense rigor had finally clouded his realistic judgment of good tactics and strategy (for his ragtag squad entailed a grand total of eleven members; twelve if Mackie (the Lonesome bulldog) were to count), whilst the N(aI)IS had legions of planets and googolplexes of cash at their disposal.

Or maybe a certain reality had manifested itself within his entire mind, body and spirit—the reality in which a person senses inevitable defeat, yet musters up the resolve to squeak out a defiant yelp against the universe: “SCREW YOU ALL!”

THE BLONDE
finished reading the excerpt and set the notebook on the table.

Waiting for her reaction to my work-in-progress, and convincing myself I didn’t give a damn what she thought, I examined the empty Mescal bottle, yearning for more.

“It’s not bad. Forward, at times disjointed, a touch sophomoric … But it is a viable report.” She tapped a pencil on the notebook as she finished speaking.

I wasn’t in the mood to listen to a critique of my work. It was garbage, so what difference did it make what anyone else thought?

“It’s not even a viable form of toilet paper, if you ask me,” I said.

“Eddie, this is a very important document. The data veiled with-in this thing is crucial to our cause.” She tapped her pencil on her knee then took to a subtler demeanor. “What you went through to … acquire … this information … is greatly appreciated.”