aaron_the fall of America_chapter_08

Chapter 8

There's too much darkness. I'm starting to think I must be in a cave. Somehow I stumbled into a cave and I can't get out. I can't get out mostly because I'm still quite weak. To eat, I've only had mushrooms, and the dirt and bugs on them.

I need to see the sun. I'd like to go to a beach like I used to do.

Peter and I decided we would drive down to the beach one summer day and we ended up at his uncle's place. Peter induced an invitation to stay the night down the hill in the boathouse.

In the morning, we walked to the dock just in time to have a ride in his uncle's sailboat that looked like a Dutch wooden shoe. He sailed us to the point of Long Point Providential Park to laze in the crowded paradise with the other boat enthusiasts. We tried to stay out of the sun but couldn't avoid the inevitable full body burn.

On the way back over the bay, Peter's uncle went below for a rest. Peter and I had to learn how to sail a boat through an afternoon storm.

One other time Peter and I were headed for Long Point, we saw a friend of his walking along the road. Peter told me to stop. His friend had no argument about coming along, so we brought him along. Again we ended up at Peter's uncle's place. This time the story was that we were camped at Long Point but were rained out, what about sleeping in the boat house. Peter enjoyed adding a bit of fiction to his stories to make them more credible. After being permitted to use the boat house, we took a drive over to Long Point to see what we could steal in the way of food and drink. While I sat in the getaway car, they stocked through the sites and collected a bit of wine, some cheese and some cold cuts.

Usually when Peter and I went to Long Point, we went early in the day with a cooler of beer and ice. The ice we always stole from Holiday Inn. We would drink in the heat until the twelve beers were gone, sober up for a few hours, then drive home.

I went camping with Tim and his parents and his little sister once when Tim's dad was still breathing well enough to drive a car. We left London by way of the 401 highway, then turned south on highway 19 to Tillsonburg, 'how my back still aches when I hear that word'. As Tim had predicted, we stopped for gas before hitting highway 3. He also predicted that we would go off the shoulder at a particular curve in the road on highway 59, we did. Tim was always observing every little detail about every little thing. He was a bit of a scientist at the particularises of things.

The first thing we had to do after we set up my little tent, was to see if there were any eligible young women on the beach. Tim looked older than he was so we could look for pubescent chicks. We nearly tripped over two on the way to the beach. We said 'hi' thinking they would be fine if we didn't find any better opportunities. We got on to doing other things after loosing interest in our search.

That night as we passed by their site, we heard them whisper something out of their trailer window. We invited them over but doubted they would elude their parents.

After wandering the camp sites and the beach for a couple hours, we crawled into our tent, stripped to our underwear and laid on our sleeping bags. We had barely settled into a conversation when we heard a tapping on the tent. Upon investigation we discovered our two friends.

We invited them in and they hesitated only a second when they saw that we were in our underwear. They were from the states and wondered if we knew French kissing. We agreed to show them that particular art form. The one I was kissing had sand in her mouth and her saliva wasn't very moist. I wasn't enjoying myself. I dreaded the thought of it going on.

When her mother and father opened the tent door and told the girls to get out, I was more relieved than disappointed.

After our guest had scampered out, the mother poked her head in the tent and said, "You boys should be ashamed of yourselves." "Why's that?" I asked.

She was too flustered to react so she went away. Although she seemed upset, her husband only stood watching as if he was amused by the whole event. We were lucky he wasn't of the shotgun wedding persuasion.

Tim won a new belt and necklace he could give as a present to Sandy. Tim's family received more entertainment next day hearing about our meeting then we had participating in it. It was a fun breakfast.

On another occasion, Tim and I went to Long Point on our own. Our transportation was the big blue Mercury Marquis, luxury boat with a great stereo and tape deck with power booster.

Since we were on an independent mission, we had a large tent, beer and marijuana. We claimed the same site we had with Tim's family. As soon as we were set up, we started in on our drinking and smoking. Our neighbours noticed our conduct and invited us over. They didn't drink but they smoked. We all smoked and bantered.

He was a mailman and came to Long Point every year with his wife. They were the second last name in the phone book. I can't remember which phone book. We were to phone if we were ever in town. I don't think we ever were. We shared stories as we gradually melted into the picnic table.

The big fellow on the other side of the road was a cop, the kind of a fellow who must have believed that if he bounded up to someone with a smile and a word to say, that he would be instantly liked, admired and respected. We perceived him as a wide open ass. He came over, stood a fair distance away and shot off his mouth about bullshit. From our point of view, he was a side show that wasn't that fun to watch. He didn't mind people drinking beer and told us to drop over to have one, but he didn't like people smoking pot. He mistakenly thought that we were on his side of the political fence so proceeded to tell us that he just had the park officials kick out some pot smoking rowdies who played loud rock music out of their Camaro. Like a true naturalist in a game preserve, he had killed a harmless snake with an axe, earlier. A real hero. We were all glad when he became tired of talking to himself, for none of us said a word, and marched back to his own territory.

The next morning, Tim and I borrowed our neighbour's dingy because they insisted it was a great way to get high. We hauled the craft down to the lake and paddled a long way from shore. The water was calm on a perfectly beautiful summer day. Our intention being to smoke a joint, we wanted to be as far away from the swimmers as possible so they wouldn't bulge at us. Taking our bearings, we calculated that we would soon be in American waters if we went much farther so we stopped, smoked the joint and were high.

We were separated from the world, enjoying our blissful seclusion when we noticed a man swimming a long way from the shore. He kept swimming. He also kept swimming in our direction. It baffled us a little to see him swimming so far from shore but it almost blew up our brains when he finally got out to where we were and said, "Nice day, isn't it?"

He had no other message. Tim and I looked at each other in bewilderment as the man swam back to shore. We tried to decide if he was a cop, a nark, a madman, an alien being or maybe we were just being stoned on a planet where one could never be certain of the rules of conduct.

What goes up must come down. There are many other rules I should be able to remember. If I remember enough rules, I can conduct a system of meaning.

Always smell a musky smell.

Another rule is, never think, just obey. I remember learning that rule. I was riding my bicycle back from seeing about being an extra in an American propaganda movie. The sun was beginning to break through the mist which might have had something to do with the strange feeling of euphoria that was sneaking up on me. A friendly policeman was stopping cars so that a taxi cab could get around a parked truck that was obstructing traffic. I slowed down and waited for the cab to pull away, then I continued on.

The man of authority didn't believe I should do my own deciding on when and where I should go. Although it looked as though he didn't know his ass from a whole in the ground, in his way he was trying to teach me that I could be safe from the terror of freedom if I could follow the rules.

"Hey, Buddy. Next time I put my hand up, you stop!"

I laughed at his naive belief in his relevance.

"Yes, Sir!" I shouted back as militarily as I could.

If I was in a belligerent mood, I would have gone back to explain to him that he could take his hand and stick it up his ass. It was perfectly obvious to me that the way was clear before I proceeded. His symbolic hand, which had out lived it's meaning, was the only obstacle in the flow of traffic.

Sometimes, cops tend to take themselves too seriously. If I was a little more cynical, I'd think that the only people who want to be cops are demented want-to-be killers. They seem to have ego problems which they avoid dealing with by taking care of other people's lives. I wonder if they are the type of creature that enjoys manipulating and torturing subordinates.


One time Brian and I were in Vancouver to meet a friend from Paris. Paris, Ontario in Canada. We were to meet at two o'clock by a particular rock, not Gibraltar but something like it on a much smaller scale. Brian and I dripped away the morning by roaming around the park.

Early that morning I had been chasing a squirrel; I was spasmodically wielding my arms around and calling it a pig. Unfortunately, an ego deficient boy dressed as a symbol of authority was prancing by on his big horse. He noticed us.

At the time I hadn't realized that he might have been offended. I was only interested in the scampering furry rodent. I wouldn't call a cop a pig. A pig is a large mass that snorts and plays in the mud. A cop is always searching for irreverence as they strut around behind their well pressed costumes.

Hours later, Brian spotted a little red sports car in a parking lot. We strolled over to verify that it was his friend's car. Although the date for our meeting was planned six weeks and a few thousand kilometres earlier, Brian had no doubt his friend would be there and on time. It was just to add to the game to detect evidence that things were as they had been set out to be.

When we were leaving the parking lot, we were accosted by a cop. It was the same big goof that had seen us earlier.

"What are you guys doing, stealing tape decks?" he charged as he rode up to us like he thought he was John Wayne.

I was instantly enraged. I didn't give a shit what he thought of us until he opened his stinking mouth. He had no business convicting us with no evidence. He assumed, as most bigots do, that because we had long hair, hadn't shaved and didn't wear proper tourist clothes, that we must be criminals.

He only became harsher with us when he discovered I wasn't a God fearing cop worshiper. He demanded our names and addresses, accusing us of vagrancy. We had no business being out of the factory trotting around freely on the planet as if we hadn't had our television fear quota. He explained that he had seen us earlier and found it odd that we would still be here.

"Ah," I said. "That's it. You were offended when I called a squirrel a pig because you thought I was yelling at you."

That through him for a loop. He went through some confusion as he thought of the possibility that my irrational behaviour wasn't intended for him. He patted his horse and said, "And I suppose you call this a dog?"

He seemed to be getting the hang of it.

"Call it whatever you want. They are just words," I replied.

Brian explained to him that we were in the park to meet a friend from Paris, Ontario at two o'clock.

The cop thought that was a funny story.

I didn't think it mattered why we were there, we were both legally in the country. I decided to become more belligerent and make sure I argued with everything the cop said.

The cop threatened to stomp all over us with his horse and he kept fondling his riot stick so we wouldn't forget the source of his authority. He explained a story to us about finding people with no identification in the bay. He went on to tell me that he wasn't impressed with intellectuals, but that I already knew from the reptilian parody of his unreasonable method of conduct. He must have guessed I was an intellectual freak if I was reckless enough to question his authority.

Don't question Authority.

To show us he wasn't fooling around, he called up two black back-up cars with his walkie talkie. The four plain clothed policemen arrived promptly and walked up beside the cop to be visual evidence for the story he was explaining to us about him being right because he had a big club to back him up.

I couldn't discern if he was off on a tangent and someone was going to intervene to take him back to his cell or if he was trying to scare us into grovelling for mercy. I didn't want to believe that he would be able to take us to the cop club to beat us to death. How often do cops do that sort of thing at two in the afternoon?

The cop was sarcastically telling his silent associates the situation and our crazy story about us coming all the way to British Columbia to meet someone in Stanley Park.

Brian's friend's timing couldn't have been better if he had planned it. Any sooner and we would have missed part of the entertainment. Any later and we might have had to endure unpleasant entertainment. We had planned to leave Vancouver the next day so we didn't want to waste time in jail of in the bay.

"What's going on?" Ike asked as a general inquiry somewhat directed at Brian.

The cop blabbered out bits of the story about us being from Ontario and we were supposed to meet someone.

"Yah. That's right," Ike said.

Ike failed to see the crime. The plain clothed policemen sauntered away not amused. They hadn't said a word or offered an expression. Our Lone Ranger friend tried climbing out of his hole with authority stories that only he believed.

It's difficult to have a belief system without militant rule. A system needs something or someone to hate. There has to be an enemy to justify the battle. He didn't know he was expressing this and would not understand if someone was to try to enlighten him, so we left him standing with his horse.

I know I'm a reasoning and logical person. At least I guess I am. How would I know if I wasn't? How can anyone know any element of truth? So what makes us believe? Where would we be if we had no sensory perception at all, or if we had no limbs, or we weren't alive in any sense but were just bits of mass floating in a vacuum? What if we weren't even that? What if we were something less than bits of mass, such as small illusions of obtuse shadows tumbling through a non-dimensional darkness? Something in that direction would make us a great deal different than the picture we have of ourselves now.

I'm sure of that.

Yesterday, as I lay on my back, I had the most stimulating and rewarding logical reasoning process. It was in the least, very entertaining. If I could remember it, I would be able to see how beautiful it was. It was simple and clear yet illusive and strange.

The monster of motion is moaning in my mind. It lashes out at my lethargy. The more I wait and consider, the more agitated and frantic I become. If I can't act soon, I'll be rooted in inability. I'll implode.

What is my predicament? I feel I'm very lost, so lost it might not be my home planet. It frightens me to think that this is not an absurd thought.

I find it difficult to sleep yet more difficult to be awake. I'm tired of this musky smell. The ground is always damp. I've accepted that it can't be my bed. The air is warmer than my skin. Sometimes I wonder if I'm in a prison cell rather than a cave. It seems too natural to be a cell and yet not natural enough for me to comprehend.

Of late, I've noticed a few small visitors. They may be attracted by my stench. I've developed a smell that would be sure to attract vultures, worms and scavenger insects. One particular bug tries to suck it's way into my consciousness any time I'm asleep. Possibly, it is attracted to the rhythm of my snoring. On rare occasions, I enjoy believing that they are a kind of friend that I am reluctant to understand. Because I can't understand them, I usually kill them.

I've never known a bug or a creature as these. It's a soft, almost sticky creature about the size of a South American cockroach. But its head is bigger and I think it has more legs and no wings. They are quite heavy. That might be gravity's fault because I feel heavy as well. I still can't see so I'm unaware of colour or markings.

The little demons that have been dead for a few days don't seem to decay. Sometimes I wonder if they are synthetic. That would make their existence a strange thing. I believe. Why would there be a need for a synthetic bug? If I was to dwell on this thought, I could have many new things to worry about.

Maybe these little demon bugs are part of an experiment that the government of somewhere is taking on me to see how I respond to unpredictable or unlearned experience. If that was the case, is it a torture or are they preparing me for a risky mission where I may be exposed to strange circumstances?

Maybe I've been hooked to a virtual reality computer that has a bug in it and I can't switch it off.
In case it's a test, next time one of the little buggers crawls or slithers or however they move, over my skin, I'll see if I can keep it alive, or working, long enough to learn something about my enemy. Of course there is no reason to believe they are my enemy except for my preconceived notions of correctness. They mostly just cause me to snap out of my unconsciousness.

Since my limbs have been working a bit better, I should investigate the nature of my confinement. I need to find out what it is I'm trying to determine. Is it mental or physical? When I remember how I arrived to where I am, as I feel I will soon, I should have a better idea how to set myself to function.

My first goal will be something other than this bitter fungus for sustenance.

I have an idea where the walls of my cell are, I can feel the closed in presence, but I can't make out what they are. They might not be rock like a cave should be. At times I imagine the walls are big trees, or that I'm in a large hollow tree trunk, there are trees that grow like that in some jungles. But if I was in a jungle I should hear some sounds. I should perceive some light. They only thing is the musky smell.

So I'm not yet certain what to think.

If I remember correctly, I tried putting my hand against the wall one time and couldn't determine any distinct point at which there was a physical surface. My hand sunk into what felt like a wall of gas or a vacuum. It wasn't so much a physical barrier but a lack of physical barrier, without temperature. The farther I pushed my hand in the less it was there and the colder it became. My hand was so numb that I thought I had lost it into a different dimension. I yanked my hand out and jammed it into the warmth of my armpit. My mind shut off as I lay and wait for felling to return.

I'm not certain of time. Sometimes I think that I've only been here an instant while other times it seems like just a bit short of forever. My calculated guess from my condition puts my time somewhere in between the two points.

If I become more desperate, I could force myself to run head on into the wall and hope that there is something to come out to on the other side. There has to be another side. I have memories from out there.

If I ran through the wall and it wasn't very thick, although I have no way of knowing if it is a meter, a kilometre or the end of space and time, I might be able to move in a few days if I wasn't frozen.

Maybe there will be something on the outside waiting to devour me.



read on. book_01 chapter_09



by Joanne B. Washington

© 2001 | the jose wombat project