*2*

Work was winding down, almost four o'clock. Bob leaned back from his terminal and stretched. Celina got up, walked over and grinned.

"I got your stuff," she smiled. She put two pills into his hand.
"How much do I owe you?" Bob asked.
"Oh, five bucks," chirped Celina.
"Thanks," Bob smirked back.

Bob placed the pills in his shirt pocket. He had never tried THC before, but had heard amazing stories. That last hour seemed to drag on forever. Part of it was just anticipation: knowing that, there in his pocket, was an "E-ticket" ride.

It was the same feeling you'd get standing in a long line at the largest amusement park roller-coaster. The line seems to last forever no matter how fast they move, since you are looking forward to the excitement at the end, while the standing, the waiting, is just a waste of time, empty space in your life, vacant time until you can have a life.

Finally, five o'clock arrived. Bob shut down his terminal, nodded to Barbara, stood up and stretched his legs. Barbara, an older woman, the rock of the office, had been working there for years. Stocky and large, her beauty had gradually been stolen away by the years. Somewhat scatterbrained now, she harbored some hidden bitterness from her past.

Bob grabbed and donned his jacket, walked into the hall, down the stairs and into the street. Hmm, I wonder how long it will take for these to kick in? Bob thought. He walked over to the Red line subway and got onto a waiting train. Better wait till I switch trains. He felt strange, being on the verge of the trip of his life, at the edge, just a stone's throw away.

This was similar to "money burning a hole in one's pocket". Two small pills of THC, joy and release, the ride of his life, all he had to do was flick them into his mouth and swallow them. The anticipation was good - it was part of the fun. Bob smiled to himself.

He got off the Red line as it pulled into Park Street and walked upstairs to the crossing Green line. He reached into his shirt pocket, stopped at a drinking fountain and swallowed the two pills. The anticipation had left him: his mind, blank, was merely along for the ride. Celina, in her distant ride home in the other direction, received his blessings, crossed herself, bowed to the Sisterhood and released Bob to God.

Bob waited patiently for the Green line car. His anticipation felt different, waiting for the drug to kick in. Not a darn thing he could do about it now. As the Green line ran several routes, splitting up at Kenmore, each car had a rotating sign in its head indicating its destination. Bob hoped he didn't have to wait half an hour for a Green car going his way. He certainly didn't want his psychedelic trip starting in the bowels of a subway station. Ah, luck was smiling on him today: the first trolley was going down Commonwealth. When the car arrived, opening its doors, Bob hopped on and nodded to the driver.

The rush hour, everyone heading home for work, crowded the car. Bob squeezed in, standing, grabbing one of the overhead handles. He thought about what he needed to do this weekend. Nothing, really. How pleasant. He softly whistled a song he wrote a year ago. I like doing nothing, nothing's what I like to do. So take my hand and spin me around and I'll spend some time with you.

The subway surfaced at Kenmore, turning into a street trolley. Bob bent down, stretching his arm and back, peering outside at the mounds of dirty snow, commuters going home, passing trees, trolley wires overhead. Half of the passengers got off at the first above-ground stop, leaving Bob and just a few other passengers standing. Bob didn't mind - he enjoyed standing in a moving trolley. Things were slowing down and getting rinky. Bob stared near the roof at a poster advertising Lou Reed; Lou stared back at Bob. Time stopped. In between the stares of Lou and Bob, they both knew that Bob was about to know everything. The THC, kicking in definitely now, caused him slowly, just perceptibly to lose touch.

As he looked around, a couple pairs of eyes touched his vision - most people were involved in their own little worlds. People were thinking about a work situation, or what they were going to do about a child, or what they were going to make for dinner. A couple people were dealing with some sort of physical pain. Bob prayed, Lord, take away their pain. This would be his stop. The trolley floor curved up slightly like a banana. Bob thought to himself, whoa, this is going to be quite a ride if I'm getting this effect already. His soul pulled him out the door, across the street, and toward the apartment that he shared with his four college buddies.

The outside windows were swirling, the stairs were distorted. Somehow he managed to open the front security door with his keys. He looked down at his hand, mind semi-blank, reviewing the key shapes and functions. Humans defined by the keys they carry. Some people, janitors, carry hundreds of keys. Bob liked to live light. Two apartment keys, a locker key and a mailbox key. You could learn a lot about people just by how many keys they carry. Bob walked up the stairs, admiring the smooth banister, worn by the grip of passing human hands. Smooth as alabaster. He was at his apartment door. He looked at his keys again. Hmm, which one. Wow, I hope I didn't overdo it on the pills. He guessed, this key. He turned the key in the keyhole, and the door opened. As he walked into the apartment, George greeted him.
"Hi Bob,"

Bob nodded. Instead of recognizing George's face, Bob sensed the presence of George's soul. George recognized something faintly different about Bob. Bob went into his bedroom. Wow, Bob's eyes slammed into the raving poster he had placed above his bed. The colors of the ocean swirled in brilliance, the fish nearly leaping off the wall.

"Wow," Bob said aloud.

George peered in past Bob's door. "How ya' doin?"

Bob recognized George's voice, but he could no longer speak. He nodded toward George. Hmm, George thought, Bob must be spaced out on something. Bob lay down on his bed.

The floor of Bob's room heaved in waves. The walls, great tall walls; shadows and made up colors; the throw-rug carpet oscillating, loops growing and shrinking. Bob felt a twinge of worry. Ahhh, it's just paranoia, Bob thought to himself. He knew he was in his bedroom. So what damage can I do to myself? He thought of all the people that he loved. Hi Mom. Hi Paula, Hi Dad. Hi Grandma.. One by one, he dropped the tether to those he loved. He had Beth on his mind. She dodged his termination. He tried again - she evaded him once more. Holding on, she kept him there, but didn't allow him to get any closer. He had to tell her that he loved her.

George came by, "how ya doing, Bob?"
"Not so good," Bob replied. "I need you to call Beth for me." Bob's soul reached into George's head and directed him to call Beth. Stunningly Bob somehow blurted, "Her number is 957-1461."

Bob reached for the phone, and through it he touched Beth's soul. She bobbed and weaved, dodging, talking around. Finally Bob broke through:

"Beth, I love you." She barely skipped a beat, talking around some more. Bob said it again, his soul rocketing through the phone lines: "I love you."
"I love you too," Beth lied in return, but it didn't matter, their souls were now free of one another.
"Thanks George," Bob said, laying back down on his bed.

Parallax lines began to converge. Bob felt the periphery squeeze in: the Lord on one side, the Devil on the other. He became aware of his own brain, inside his skull, connected to his body. His awareness, residing in the front of his brain. The love of everyone he knew pulling at the back of his brain. The Lord and the Devil, pulling at different parts of his soul. And the parallax lines grew closer, slowly shutting down his awareness. Am I dying? He no longer had a sense or awareness of his body. His environment, the city, the room vanished. Bob felt squeezed toward an ever narrowing dot. He felt the tug of all his emotions: waves of sorrow, fear, love and anger.

George asked his brother Tom if they should call an ambulance.
"Is he breathing okay?" Tom asked.
"Yeah."
"He'll be okay," Tom said. "We'll just keep an eye on him."

The gestalt of all reborn souls briefly touched Bob's soul. Tag. Tag. Tag. He was being guided. He wasn't sure by whom or by what. He had to make a choice: which way to go, based on instinct and guidance. He chose this way. Another choice. He chose honor. One more choice. He touched his soul from before his birth. He smiled inwardly, recognized the soul touch - the link - from both ends. It explained the "who" and "what" that had guided him through his birth. The soul of his elder self touched him. It was not a smile, but guidance along with a blessing. Choose this way. He chose. I love you, God. The singularity pulled Bob through and he was gone.