"In The Neighborhood"

There was a park where the old gang used to hang out. It was, in essence, two parks that joined two separate tracks of homes combined by a strip of concrete. With those two neighborhoods representing two very different tax brackets, it was said to be a symbol of community togetherness. Maybe I’m a cynic, but I’m certain it was not intentionally created for the purpose. I imagine it was more like “well, we can’t put a road there so let’s just keep the grass going.” Humanity and its need to falsify higher purpose.

Anyway, we spent a fair amount of time at this park, but today was special. Today, my companions had a bunch of mushrooms. It all began at around 11am.

The group’s makeup on this day looked a bit like a rec center basketball team. Let’s get the scouting report, shall we?

At Center we had Eric. About 6’5. Just below a defining resemblance to a young Tom Waits. Eric’s 5:00 shadow was more of a 7pm. Lanky, bourbon-soaked in a 70s, divey jazz bar kind of way, slicked back hair and giant gold sunglasses that made you wonder if he shared a stylist with Elvis Presley.

At Power-Forward we had Wendell Jackson, though everyone called him Jack. He would often say that Wendell was the name of some Dickensian chimney sweep, but at 6’3, 135 with floppy, dirty blonde hair and a Shaggy from Scooby Doo goatee he looked precisely like a Dickensian chimney sweep. Just hand the guy a whalebone brush.

The Small-Forward, Atohi was 6’1, 6’4 if you included his hair which ran vertical, usually either in a type of pseudo-mohawk or a style akin to a floppy Kid of Kid ‘n Play. That picture of Atohi in your head? 100% wrong. He’s almost entirely Irish. White as snow with tomato red hair. Feeling kind of foolish? Outraged maybe? I get it, but Atohi’s parents were both sincerely fascinated by indigenous culture and loved trees, and there wasn’t a lot of awareness about cultural appropriation in the late 1970s.

At 5’10 and 185 pounds, Ned was the gang’s Shooting Guard by physical archetype. This was ironic because while he could dribble and pass a little, he was an absolutely miserable shooter. In the colloquial form, he built skyscrapers out of brick.

Finally, at Point, 5'2 and solid as a bowling ball, there was Theo. Everyone called him Grover and no one had any idea why. Grover was very patient and enjoyed things like spending an hour or more hiding behind a bush or in a cupboard to frighten his friends when they were very high. Ned especially because he had a very high pitch scream that came easy and amused the group very much.

I was also present, of course.

To start, the story’s title is a lie. The evocation of the old Tom Waits song with it's evolving, downtrodden yet triumphant nostalgia feels like good symmetry to me, but technically our park was tiny and sucked so we always went to another one across town. It was Thursday so the good park was almost vacant when the gang put magic mushrooms into peanut butter sandwiches and strapped in for some casual, “spiritual” drug use.

They played like the activity was some spirit quest, but they were full of it. Honestly, this was just a group of mildly loveable jerks looking to get really high in the park, drunk in Atohi’s case, while I observed. It’s not to say that they weren’t open to revelation, but to discuss it as if they were communing with Nature’s Spirit... I suppose early twenty-somethings are quite proficient at lying to themselves in search of justification and aggrandizement.

Anyway, I watched them consume the psychedelic sandwiches as Atohi started in on the bottle of vodka that was stashed in the trunk of Eric’s 1967 Impala. They proceeded to spend the eighty-four subsequent minutes “hanging out” in standard fashion while their vices began setting in.

Atohi, feeling the effects of his activity more quickly than the others, started pitching a movie idea to Jack called The Rudolph Shoe for them to write together. It began with a train of thought that, much like Christian rock, Christmas movies didn’t need to be as good as their non-themed competition to be successful. Elitist perhaps, but also quantifiably true.

With the desire to “cash in on Christmas” established, what came next was a wave of ludicrousness featuring Santa Claus in a distorted version of a Monkey’s Paw morality play with evil Russian spies and “condor people” for some inexplicable reason. It was stupid and bizarre, and a complete narrative mess.

Not long after Atohi’s… whatever that was, every one of them vomited singularly in some sequence. Even Atohi, who wasn’t suffering from trademark hallucinogen digestion, had his turn. Then things started to get quite weird.

Jack’s mind bent to a deep shame that revolved around being human and what the housing community they were standing in should actually look like. Humanity was immorally displacing nature, and “the earth’s punishment” was inevitable.

Jack was, of course, completely correct including our impending crash course with nature’s wrath, but psychedelic drug enhanced individuals make for erratic messengers.

Jack ran off ranting about how he needed to find a tent and “ponder things in the forest.” There was no forest for a very long way. I suppose there was a hiking area that would take one into some hills with sparse trees, but worlds away from the topography of Grimm Fairytales. Functionally, he just took off.

I believe seven shots into inebriation, Atohi brilliantly wanted to drive after him. Fortunately, Grover had the presence to say that was a terrible idea. Unfortunately, his counteroffer was to do the driving himself because he was in a “sober wave.” Just to note, moments before he had been trying to do a cartwheel and threw up from the effort. I’m grateful to say that Eric immediately jumped on that proverbial grenade.

The plan became Eric and Atohi heading after Jack on foot in the direction that he went, hoping to catch sight of him. Eric said something like “the hawk will show us the way.” There was a circling hawk remotely in the direction that Jack ran off, maybe. Eric seemed to be the most rational-minded but that statement, which was delivered without humorous intonations, begged a host of questions.

Simultaneously, Grover would cross the park in case Jack looped back after coming to some form of sense. If he went home, Grover would also head him off going that way.

Poor Ned looked dumbfounded, attempting to follow the conversation like it was happening in fast-forward with glittering trails running behind everyone’s gestures. By the time his brain caught up with the scenario the two of us were alone. Luckily for him, by virtue of being too stoned to understand what was happening he performed precisely his job.

“Ned, you wait here in case he just finds his way back.”

If you would like a look inside of Ned’s brain at that moment, here you go.

“Sand is so fascinating! It’s so small! We are so small. Have you ever thought about how infinite infinity is? Dude… If there is a God, would God choose to climb Everest because the effort is beautiful and life changing, or would It skip the mess and just pop there? Kilimanjaro. Ha! Kilo-man-jar-o? Killa-man, jar OHHHH!!!! Hey! Where is everybody?”

Sigh…

That said, this is where I finally decided to chime in.

“Don’t you remember, Ned? Jack ran off.”

Here is how Ned would later describe hearing my voice in his journal. “His was a voice originating from the spot right next to me that hit my ears much like Ludo from Labyrinth, only without the gravel. It was smooth as velvet, but deep as a sea cave. Not mysterious though. Wholesome. Mr. Rogers meets Ludo, but Ludo like cheesecake, meets an octopus hole in the deep sea, with a kindly octopus inside that waved hello. Yeah, that exact vocal tone. That’s precisely it.”

Drugs, kids.

“You’re waiting here with me in case he comes back.” I pressed on, filling him in on the events that unfolded right in front of him only two minutes ago.

“Greenwood? You wear glasses?”

“Only when I’m reading, Ned.” As I figured, they were all too wrapped up in what they were doing to notice that I was entertaining myself with the copy of Ethica: Ordine Geometrico Demonstrata by Baruch Spinoza from Eric’s car.

“You know Latin?” Ned was dumbfounded. I will be fair and say it wasn’t an indefensible reaction.

“Look, Ned. We can talk all about the eight languages that I speak and read another time. That’s not why I’m ‘outing myself’ here. There are things you should learn. I am here to explain The Universe to you.” I said before nodding his attention towards a bush.

“What would you like me to do with that bush?”

“Go pee. I need your full attention and you’re squirming like a six-year-old waiting for the class bell. Quickly, please. They will be back, and they can’t know about this talk. We have a lot to cover.”

“First, can I ask? Why does nothing rhyme with orange?” To Ned this was a critical moment. The question had haunted him for years.

When the silent finally speak, for better or worse, people expect mountains to move.

“Fine. Nothing rhymes with orange because Orange is the true name of God. God did not want to show up in hack poetry so It made certain that no word would sound proper opposite Its name. Short-sighted plan though, of course. You actually have to let it be known what your name is for any such approach to make sense. God is good at a great many things; chess is not one of them. Now go and make water upon that bush.”

I guess the formal speak surprised him more than learning the true name of God because he went straight to, “Make water upon that bush? Who talks like that? The 1500s called…”

I cleaned up a little while he peed. My glasses fogged in the process, so I decided to just put my book aside and focus on my unlikely pupil.

He literally skipped back to reclaim the spot on the grass next to me. Even knowing his state of mind, it was a little off-putting.

“OK. I’m back. What now, Greenwood? My head feels a little funny.”

“I know, Ned. You’re on drugs, remember?” This was where I laid down, a defeatist physical manifestation of my rising impatience. Why couldn’t they have left Eric behind?

“First, go into the backpack and get the water bottle. Pour a little on your hands and do your best to wash them, then drink some.”

“Can I pat your head?”

“Wash first. Then, I guess...”

“Fiiiiine.” He huffed like a five-year-old but did as he was ordered. Then with hazy glee scratched my head much harder than I would have liked.

“Your glasses are gone.”

“I’m not reading anymore.”

“Makes sense. I think.” Ned drifted for a moment, but came back without prompting. “So, what did you want to teach me? Did you choose me because I’m deep and contain multitudes? I do, you know.”

“I don’t know if I would call you deep, but… sure. See, you’re nice and not very bright. That makes you well intentioned and quite malleable. That’s why I chose you.”

I went on to explain the true existence of God as the natural laws and forces that bind our universe, but I fear Ned heard something akin to this:

“God exists, but is imprisoned by humanity. God created The Universe, a force that barriers God, trapped by knowledge not being. In the great tradition, God spoke to an eagle that spoke to a badger that spoke to a rock snake from Beirut, and Pinot shall empower us all. The Universe will grow to its potential when humanity sees the truth. The Universe is the trap that humanity trapped God in turned on humanity to indulge God’s desire for knowledge. We are God, as our thoughts empower It, but we are also God’s jailers because our thoughts are limited.”

“Yes! Of course! This is making a lot of sense.” Ned bounced from foot to foot with incredible enthusiasm.

I couldn’t help but think he didn’t understand. This was confirmed when he started thinking out loud.

“Solution. Soul-Oooooh-shun. Souloo… Lou? Loosh? No. Un is like ‘no.’ Wait. Soul you. Shun soul…s… Shhh… Quiet. Quiet souls? Soul-you-shun. Wait! Of course! ‘Sol’ Spanish for sun. You shun the sun. God’s name is Orange! God is the sun. We shunned God, but we don’t have to. Set It free! ‘Free, free, set God free! Oh-ooh-whoa-ooh whoa. If you need somebody. Call my name...’”

Seriously… This is what we get when we try to help the people.

“Guys! Guys!” He started shouting, spinning in circles. I laid back down. It was clearly a good time for a nap.

On the less affluent side of the park there was a mom clearly scratching her head in our direction while watching two kids play on the swings.

Ned started monologuing in the past tense. He used a deep, pontificating voice like he was suddenly Morgan Freeman, if Morgan Freeman were very stupid. “She had no idea. She didn’t carry the burden that I now did. She had the luxury of thinking that I was crazy, but she wasn’t doing God any favors. The world was so broken. Everything was broken. What could I do about it? I was just one person. Why did Greenwood tell me this? Who was I?”

“Jesus, stop whining.” I couldn’t stop myself. What a waste of an afternoon.

“But what do I do with this knowledge? How do I help God? I want to free The Universe, but I’m not some politician or a wizard. What can I do?”

“Uh, hey man... Why are you talking to Eric’s dog?” Jack’s voice swept in from behind me like a coastal breeze.

“Oh, Jack. There you are.” Ned ran over and hugged him. “I’m glad you’re ok, but we have to change everything about all of our lives right now.”

“Dude! I was just thinking the same thing! Did you know that we’ve imprisoned God?”

*High Five!*

Guess the hawk told him.