Nine Kinds of Naked (40 page)

“It's not a little escapist,” Diablo replied, scratching his chest like a gorilla. “It's
entirely
escapist. Totalitarianism represents the supreme mastery of the delusion that we can control the chaos of life, and spontaneity is the only antidote. What power does the state have against a God who has discovered its own mask? And besides, maybe Armageddon is just God's fail-safe measure, did you ever consider that? This is Spirit's adventure, after all, Providence at play, the necessary illusion, the dark side of the Tao. Well, Spirit doesn't want to get so lost in its own illusion that it winds up imprisoning itself for eternity, lost in a panoramic maze of mirrors. Why else plant the Tree of Knowledge? The hiss of the serpent was just the first whisper of a wake-up call, the kundalini caduceus writhing out of the muck and into the miraculous. So now, just in case life wanders too far astray from its underlying divinity—the definition of the totalitarian impulse, by the way—then a scenario inevitably emerges that detonates the DNA and awakens the divine.

“But I don't think we're headed there, really. You have to give humankind some credit. Western civilization has only
recognized the Earth as round for five hundred years, and it's hardly been fifty years since we first saw a picture of the Earth from space. With the benefit of that perspective, I think we'll eventually realize that there is no tragedy so tremendous that it will fail to find its silence in the emptiness of eternity. Bam, boom, and kapow, the rockets fire and the sirens wail, and all of it no more than the echo of a passing shadow.

“So yeah, this is escapist, but only in the sense of escaping these obsolete arrangements. The goal of Project Free Time is not to get people to dance, but to get people in touch with the spontaneity of their spirit, the impulse,
love.
I'm trying to set off a cluster bomb of spontaneity fanning out like a shock wave across human consciousness. That's the hidden agenda here, to create a new world on the same planet, to realize a higher consciousness that isn't imprisoned by social structure. It is not beyond the wit of humanity to achieve this.”

Elizabeth squinted at him. “Yeah, but—devil's advocate—
don't get involved, get evolved?
What kind of an irresponsible, all pith and no point philosophy is that? It kind of sounds like you're encouraging political apathy as a spiritual path.”

“Listen,” Diablo grinned, stimulated by her attack. “Try to hear what I'm saying. These social structures were designed by
the dead
, and no ancient wisdom is as great as that which is yet unspoken by the living. Why not walk away from what's not working and build something that is? And on and on, by the way. That has to keep on happening. Every generation must force a further frontier than their forefathers.

“And as far as politics goes, do you have any idea how unbearably phony these political pretensions are? I mean, I don't
know about you, but my life is a spiritual adventure, not a goddamn political intrigue. I am
alive
right now, and I won't always be.
Memento mori
, remember you must die. I'm here to connect with other souls, to gaze across the cosmos at another myself, to deepen the motherfuckin' groove, right?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Maybe it's not all hugs and backrubs. Maybe politics is part of it. Maybe we're here to play with politics, too.”

Diablo chuckled, repeating “hugs and backrubs” before regaining his combative demeanor. “We are absolutely here to play, and as long as we can play with politics without burning out our spirit, then it's all fine, sure, and whatever. Let me ask you this: Have you ever almost died?”

“No.”

“Well I have, and let me tell you something that's for certain: This is it, and
that's all.
We're all born in love, one love, but we pound it out of each other from birth, and every last lurch of our low-vibration dreary drama is just spastic desperation trying to find its way back to love. Do you understand what I'm saying? To be human is to be a lost soul. Bunch of tweaked-out and twitching spazzes, every last one of us, and the more you think otherwise the more lost you really are. Love is the only reality, and it's the perfect opposite of everything our social structures encourage. We're supposed to believe that we're different from one another, separate and alone, that we're not lost in the same labyrinth. Consequently, instead of lending a helping hand in our common predicament, we become minotaurs to one another, taunting, teasing, and terrorizing each other until our common humanity is chased
into a box so small that people have to take drugs just to dance. That's why I say walk away.”

Elizabeth's smile had fallen flat. It had become clear to her that this man could prattle pretty much indefinitely, and while he fascinated and enthralled her, she wasn't sure his rap was fueled by anything more substantial than his own enthusiasm. Pursing her lips, she stared into his eyes until he blinked, confused, and she rebuked, “Are you walking away or just talking away?”

 

111
G
AZING DOWN
at his twin, starkers and astride the snortling donkey, Special Agent J. J. Speed was immediately struck by how elated this younger clone of himself looked. Indeed, it was the happiest he had ever seen himself, positively radiating lightheartedness, and if this were a mirror he would have known for certain that there was not a thing in the world about which to worry. But having no category by which to process this bizarre perception, Special Agent J. J. Speed merely rubbed his eyes, trying to remember how much tequila he had drunk that day.

“Synchronicity on the sultry soothe of your day!” the apparent apparition suddenly bellowed boisterous, bowing by way of salutation.

This greeting alarmed Special Agent J. J. Speed, resounding as it did off the walls of the alley and alerting him that this grinning twin was about to blow his element of surprise on m2 headquarters. He hurried down the stairs, stepping lightly, and it was not until he got to the bottom, pointing his Luger at
this straddle-backed happy-jack version of himself that he realized he was threatening a hallucination.

“Wait a second.” Special Agent J. J. Speed looked suspiciously around. “What's happening here?” he muttered, and his mind desperately caved in upon itself with allegations and answers in order to justify the story of his life. M2 must have known I was on to them! he realized, panicking wildly. They poisoned me! Secret society drug cult mind control double-cross conspiracy. I walked right into a trap someone in that crowd of fools think goddamnit no that mocha latte with chocolate sprinkles now it makes sense that's why the grandfather clock some kind of psychotomimetic compound absorbable through the skin I've heard of that or maybe on this fucking Frisbee we should get
naked
but what was going on with that broomstick they must have been watching me but whose laundry was that think goddamnit who the fuck is Zippy maybe Wilhelmina's a double agent maybe m2 is really the CIA maybe I've been set up as an Oswald maybe I'm about to assassinate someone oh man there's no way I'm going down as a patsy where's the truth what's happening?

“The question is too big,” the grinning twin tried to answer. “You cannot capture chaos with an answer,” he continued. “The realization of this leads to freedom.”

Special Agent J. J. Speed wasn't listening. Think goddamnit check your premises yes this is definitely a hallucination can't be happening I'm done for I've lost my edge where's my toothpick goddamn cat litter why is he grinning it smells like manure I didn't know you could hallucinate odors that's interesting
I could try to shoot him the silencer is awesome and no one would hear but that's me no it's not but what if it is and the Great White Spot is a wormhole and this is a time warp paradox double fucking paradox how can I tell maybe I could just shoot the mule and see what happens that'll tell me at least something okay then that's the plan. Special Agent J. J. Speed lifted his Luger and blandly fired two shots point-blank between the front legs of the donkey. Cool sound like a muffled laser gun gotta love that but nothing happened except a ricochet off the brick wall beyond okay so it's definitely a hallucination maybe I should just ignore it and continue as planned the world hangs in the balance it's up to me gotta save the day it all comes down to this think goddamnit Billy Pronto madman unleashing transcendental chaos walk away.

“I have no material existence on this plane of existence,” his grinning twin offered. “Nor does my steed.”

Special Agent J. J. Speed scowled, again wondering how he could smell an animal that had no material existence, but then he happened to glimpse a sprig of mistletoe twisted into the mule's bridle and all else was forgotten. He gasped at its unprecedented beauty, his gaze mesmerizing into the depths of its eternity. Abandoning his theory that this was all a hallucination, he reached out for the mistletoe as he rudely demanded, “Hey what is that?”

“Don't touch it!” his grinning twin warned, guiding his steed a few steps backward. But Special Agent J. J. Speed was not dissuaded, and lunging forward managed to touch something that allegedly had no material existence. He succeeded
in plucking one of the white berries, crushing it in his grasp as it dissolved into effervescence between his fingertips.

His grinning twin seemed to materialize a broadsword out of nowhere, the tip of which he tapped very deliberately upon the pavement, simultaneously yelling, “Whoa now!”

Thence ensued a silence so deep that Special Agent J. J. Speed counted at least nine resounding
now!
s echoing into taunting whispers off the alley walls. Eyes widening with each repercussion, Special Agent J. J. Speed watched in perplexity as his grinning twin dismounted and leveled his sword at him. “It is unwise to touch the mistletoe,” his grinning twin assessed him, measuring his sword upon him. “Especially for one such as you. You are not even a worthy challenger. Your heart is corrupted by fear and contempt.”

“Why do you look like me?” Special Agent J. J. Speed demanded. “And why are you running around naked?”

“Do not confuse my presence with the persona you project upon me. What you see is a hallucination, a projection of the freedom from which you flee.”

“Who are you?”

“I do not pretend to know who I am.”

Forgetting everything but his lust for the mistletoe, Special Agent J. J. Speed leveled his Luger at his grinning twin. “Tell me your name or I'll shoot you in the fucking face, how about that, smiley?”

This threat did not seem to faze his grinning twin in the least, who went right on smiling as if he were Jesus Christ savoring a raspberry plucked from his crown of thorns. “I dream of love as
tyrants shoot my head,” he said, and no sooner had he spoken these words than the flat end of the broadsword slapped the pistol out of Special Agent J. J. Speed's grip, fiercely smarting the back of his hand as the blade rang from the impact.

“Ah fuck!” Special Agent J. J. Speed yelled, gripping the throb of his hand. “I thought you said you have no material existence!”

“We are no longer on your plane,” his grinning twin explained as a dozen or so hilariating gnomes suddenly scampered between them, fetching the Luger and tossing it about as they whooped away.

Special Agent J.J. Speed was incredulous at this disruption. “What the hell was that?”

His grinning twin shrugged apologetic. “Gnomes,” he answered, as if that sufficed as an explanation.

“Gnomes?” he repeated. “Gnomes? Why are there goddamn gnomes running around?”

“It is their way. They are mostly harmless, nothing more than manifestations of the collective human imagination, really, though they have a wicked sense of irony about them. They keep things on track.”

“On track? What the hell are you talking about? What is all this?”

“You are in the moment of Truth,” his grinning twin answered. “There really is no time like the present. Right here and right now.”

“What does that mean?”

His grinning twin raised his sword again. “Unfortunately for you, it means it is time for you to die.”

 

112
A
T A DINKY, DUMPY
, hole-in-the-wall computer repair shop just around the corner, a lonesome man was dropping off his brand-new laptop. His hard drive had crashed and failed to reboot, and he was hoping they could somehow re-cover his lost data. He was three hours later than his appointment, but he had awoken that morning with his stomach tied in inexplicable knots, and so had puttered and slumped around his hotel room all morning. This was the soonest he'd been able to make it out and about. Chatting amiably with the receptionist, he looked up as the door jingled open, only to find his estranged girlfriend standing there in her
ARGUE NAKED
T-shirt, holding her laptop as if it were a sick puppy. Having neither seen nor spoken to her in weeks, he found eye contact an unbearable agony and looked immediately away. Wanting to regard the encounter, however, he glanced again at her, gesturing toward his laptop as he muttered idiotically, “My hard drive crapped out.”

“Yeah,” she smiled helplessly. “Mine too.” As the flash of her hopeful smile stretched her sad eyes, he wanted to bolt out the door, but paperwork prevented his immediate exit. “Do you have some time now?” she asked, and he nodded. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk?”

“Yeah.” He nodded nervously as he signed whatever form. “Sure. Yes. Okay. I'll, uh, I'll just wait outside.”

Out on the sidewalk, his prickling astonishment at the synchronicity of this unlikely encounter with his ex-lover was matched by his curiosity at a crowd of people nearby, enthusiastically digging through a small pile of clothing on the sidewalk, holding up various articles for size and such. When she
exited the store after a few minutes, her attention was immediately drawn to the ruckus as well. A coffee mug seemed to be the source of this excitement as it was passed around and examined by each person in turn.