I’m scared—very scared, and need to drop out of sight for a while—maybe disappear a few years and bury myself in an obscure research project I know about, up in Nunavut.
I wish I never answered Zavi Rosenzweig’s call or gone out to the New Mexico desert to meet him.
I’ve known Zavi for ten years—met him after he graduated Hebrew University and he worked with me a few years at UCLA.
He was a patient researcher, a hard worker and very independent—it was his independent spirit that led him to New Mexico, where last I heard he was living out of a battered orange pick up truck on the edge of the desert.
I continued to stay on in California working in Neuroimaging and Cognitive Functioning.
There were days when I envied my friends—Zavi and his exotic lifestyle and Hershel Oliver, another former colleague, who went on to work with the FBI in field intelligence, analyzing and tracking foreign threats.
Anyway, my life had fallen into a comfortable, if not mind-numbing routine, until one fatal Friday, just after work, when I picked up my cell and heard Zavi’s excited voice.
“Hey, Mark—Man, am I glad I got you. What are you doing right now?”
I was in the gym and looking at the seventy year-old retiree beside me lazily lifting 2-pound dumbbells and tired housewives going through the motions on the gym’s treadmills.
“Nothing, buddy—absolutely nothing.”
“I’ve got a proposition for you—jump on a plane and jet down to New Mexico. I’ll meet you at the Santa Fe Municipal Airport. I’m onto something really big—it’ll knock your socks off.”
I wasn't impressed.
“Look Zavi—I just can’t run down there on a whim—What’s up?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone—it’s that big. You’ll have to take my word—you won’t be sorry.”
I was dubious. It seemed nuts.
Zav went on, “Oh, by the way, I’ve already booked your flight and you’ve got just over ninety minutes to get to the airport.”
“Are you insane? I haven’t had time to pack, or anything!”
“Just grab an overnight case and come on down. You won’t be sorry.”
There was a long pause while I weighed my options—stay in L.A. and be bored out of my skull, or take a ride on the friendly skies.
“So, what do you say?”
“I’ll be there and you better buy the Margaritas.”
“You’re on, chum—See you when you touch down. I’ll be in a yellow Avis rental car.”
And that was that.
I was in and out of the shower, packed and on my way to the airport in twenty minutes. An hour and a half later I was looking down on white cloud fields and wondering what the hell I was doing.
Truth was, I was having an adventure. A novel way for me to spend the weekend.
Zavi was waiting as promised and we drove to some ramshackle bar and he ordered Guacamole Rita’s.
I arched an eyebrow and he just smiled his big white-toothed grin. “Don’t worry, Bro—they’re made with Blanco and see—”
He ran his pinky around the rim—“Kosher salt, of course!”
“Of course,” I laughed.
We sat and talk and I filled him in on the campus scuttlebutt—Finally, I came round to discussing the elephant in the room.
“This better be good, dude. I’ve got some nice chicks waiting for me on a treadmill back in L.A.”
His eyes grew wide as the Moon. “Good? Man, this is friggin’ nuts! Wait ‘till you hear the details.”
I sat back and sipped my Rita. “I’m all ears.”
He glances round the empty bar, and then leans in conspiratorially across the table. “I met this Aztec bio-researcher—crazy old coot, I figured—always out in the desert for weeks, collecting plants specimens.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to egg him on.
“Anyway, I bring him here one night for drinks and he gets sloshed. He confides he’s found some really weird desert plant that only blooms in moonlight. Says it’s got weird hallucinogenic powers.”
“Go on,” I say, already feeling let down—all I can think is, I jetted all this way just to hear about another peyote type hallucinogen.
“Anyway, I’m kind of half-listening because I’m not into that Carlo Castaneda shit and I’m bored hearing about mescaline dreams.”
My ears prick up.
“Then, this old guy reaches into this satchel he wears round his shoulder and takes some of these dried leaves between his thumb and forefinger—“Don’t look like much, does it?” he says. I nod. It doesn’t.”
He sips from his Margarita. He’s got a bit of a flair for the dramatic, so I let him milk his moment.
Then, the old guy puts a couple of pinches in an envelope and tells me to try it when I sober up. “What’s it gonna do?” I ask him. He just shrugs and says, “You tell me when you come back.”
“Then, he gets up and walks out into the desert and disappears right before my eyes, like he’s some kind of shape-shifter or something.”
I roll my eyes and Zavi just shakes his head. “No man—it ain’t like that. I wasn’t pissed and I’m telling you what I saw.”
“So, what happened—Did you take it?”
“Oh yeah—it’s not a hallucinogen—it’s a clairvoyant drug.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I had been searching for some Indian ruins—looking for artifacts to support my research here—Well, I knew right away exactly where they were—went there and found a treasure trove of finds. I’ve got enough dough to bankroll me for twenty years here. How’d you think I paid for your return fare?”
I was intrigued.
“You want to try this, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Okay, man. Tomorrow, you drop this stuff and take a little trip. I’ll tell you this much—you’re never going to be the same.”
I couldn’t sleep that night thinking about what Zavi said. If he really found a substance with the properties he described, it’d revolutionize human society.
The next morning, I awakened to the phone jangling on the night table in my motel room. It was Zavi.
“Hey dude, sorry to phone so early. I’ve got to see my sister, Marlene, in Flagstaff. She was involved in an auto accident. I left an envelope at the desk with the motel owner—it’s got your name on it. I’m just about to board my plane.”
“Sorry to hear about Marlene—hope she’s all right. Any idea when you’ll be back?”
“No man—Don’t worry about me. Go home. Try the stuff. Let me know how it turns out. I gotta run.”
I was disappointed, but true to his word, an envelope was waiting for me. I shoved it into my pants pocket and arranged for a rental car and drove to the airport.
I was back in L.A. by dinnertime and shortly thereafter, working out in the same small gym with the same tired housewives and the old guy with the 2-pound weights.
Fun? WOW!
I didn’t get around to opening the envelope until Monday after work. I was bored as usual and figured I’d see what the packet contained.
The small brown packet inside the envelope contained dried flowers that reminded me of lavender. Hardly impressive.
There were no instructions about how to take it or how much to take. I decided to measure a half-ounce and to brew it with some green tea—that seemed more palatable.
I drank my tea and frankly was disappointed. Absolutely nothing happened—only a chorus of demons emerging from the vents singing the hallelujah chorus—yeah, I made that up.
Nothing bloody happened.
I went downtown for a walk and to get a drink—a Margarita, so I could mockingly toast good ole Zavi.
I stopped into a bar—a quite nice one—and met a woman, who was quite nice as well. Turns out she was a psychology researcher at Berkley. Small world.
I took her name and number and told her I’d call—I wasn’t sure I would, but it was my usual exit strategy.
On my way out, I spotted a man coming in. All of a sudden, bells went off inside me. I saw images of him with unusual technology and saw him covertly meeting with other strange individuals.
I just knew that I knew, the man was some kind of terrorist or subversive. The feeling was overwhelming.
I watched him for about an hour, then trailed him back to his hotel. I found out his room number and his name. What now?
There was only one thing to do—contact Hershel Oliver and see if the name registered on the FBI’s threat list, or whatever it was they tracked.
Hershel was happy to hear from me, but skeptical to say the least when I told him about my suspicions. But he also knew me well and knew I was stable and not prone to exaggeration. He agreed to run the name through their database.
The name was a hit. Two days later, Hershel phoned and told me the man was being surveilled, and then, for two months, I heard nothing. It seemed Hershel and the man dropped off the radar.
I hadn’t done anything more with the substance Zavi gave me—I guess I wanted to see the outcome of Hershel’s investigation.
Finally, one night Hershel phoned and invited me for a drink at the bar where I had first spotted the man.
“You really helped a lot, Mark. We knew very little about this operative other than some anomalies we spotted previously and were trying to piece together.”
“Is he a Middle-Eastern terrorist?” I asked.
“You know I can’t tell you specifics like that, Mark—but actually, no. The truth is it’s more complicated than that.”
“Complicated how?”
He hesitated—a long time—and then, as if having weighed the consequences and come to a decision, he said flatly, “The man has alien DNA.”
I stared at him dumbly. “Alien, in the sense of foreign?”
Hershel shook his head. “No, Mark—Alien in the sense of non-human.”
He didn’t really say more—he wasn’t able to. He asked me a lot of questions about the man, but really, I was no help to him either. I didn’t know any more than I already told him.
We shook hands and he walked away, out into the warm L.A. night and I went back to my apartment and sat for hours trying to think it all through.
But I have no answers either.
Like I said before, I’m scared—very scared. I don’t know what the hell is going on, and I’m not sure I want to know.
All I know is some stranger was living among us with alien DNA and I’m feeling very vulnerable. I probably could have lived out my life peacefully, oblivious to the truth, but now I know, and that’s no longer possible.
I put in my application to do research in Nunavut and I’m dropping off the map.
I never thought I’d be an informant and want no more glimpses, thank you, into the underbelly of our social network. I just want to be left alone—free to pursue my interests, blissfully ignorant…
up there in Nunavut.
