Ken Kesey - Demon Box

"Uh-huh," Daddy grunted. The sudden sweep of the papers had tilted his head; he was pushing it straight with his hand. "Maybe he don't, too."

"Another cup of mud?" my mother asked to change the subject.

I shook my head. "One cup of that stuff is plenty; I've got to work tonight."

"How you coming with it?" my dad wanted to know.

"Slow," I said. "It's tough to get the machine up to speed."

"Especially when you ain't run the thing in a dozen years." He had his head steady enough to get me with his old, stiff-thumb-in-the-ribs look. "If you expect to have that movie out in time to benefit from my opinions, you better crank 'er up to speed pretty damn quick!"

It was the look that flashed a second later, after the stiffening went out, that got me. I finished my coffee and stood up. "That's where I'm headed out to right now," I said. "To crank 'er up."

"Better not head too far out," he growled, reaching for another section of the paper. "I'm liable not to wait for you to get back."

Mom met me at my car. "They have him on tap for another one of those spinals Saturday," she said. "He hates the nasty things, and they scare the dickens out of me."

"Spinals aren't dangerous, Mom: I've seen dozens of them."

"Ever think that might be why he wants you to be around, you knothead!"

"Take it easy, Mom, I'll be around," I promised. "Thanks for the mud."

So when Dr. Mortimer called the following Thursday to invite me to join him at the annual convention of psychiatric superintendents, I told him I'd better stay home and keep at our project.

"But it's in Florida this year!" he explained through the phone. "At the Disney World Hotel! The movie people will pick up your tab."

Again I declined. I didn't mention my father. "I'm a little stuck with the script," I explained.

"They said they thought a trip like this might help unstick you. This year's entertainment is The Bellevue Revue. I saw them two years ago in Atlantic City. Positively hilarious. I bet you could pick up some fresh angles from those Looney Toons. Also, the keynote speaker? They've dug up the author of that beatnik bible, Now Be Thou. You've perhaps heard of him? Dr. Klaus Woofner?"

I said yes I had, and that I'd be interested to hear what he was talking about these days – "But not right now."

"They've got you a ticket waiting at the Portland airport: United to Orlando at three thirty." Mortimer sounded as excited as a kid. "A free trip to Disney World, you lucky dog – think of it!" I told him I would; I had a good twenty-four hours to make up my mind. "I'll phone you tomorrow morning and let you know what I decide."

"I'm sure it'll be a load of laughs," he urged. "Honestly try to make it."

I said I was sure, too, and that I honestly would, though I had no intention whatsoever of driving a hundred and fifty miles to Portland, then flying all the way to Florida, not even to hear old Woofner huff and puff.

The next morning I didn't feel quite as firm about it. The night had cranked me backwards and left me feeling uncertain. I had shitcanned most of my old draft and made a fresh start, and the new stuff was already looking old. A little break away from it looked more and more inviting. On the other hand, a drive to Portland in my wishy-washy condition would be a task. By the time it was getting late enough that I had to make the call to Mortimer, one way or the other, I was in the middle of a quandary. I decided that I had best consult the I Ching for an answer; the oracle has helped me clear up more than one wishy-washy quandary. I had just carried the book to the breakfast table when the dogs announced the arrival of a car. Betsy opened the door for a well-dressed young man with a monotone voice.

"Good morning, Mrs. Deboree. I'm Dr. Joseph Gola. Dr. Mortimer sent me down from the hospital to pick up your husband."

"Pick up my husband?"

"And drive him back to Portland. Dr. Mortimer was afraid there could be a problem getting gas."

That weekend was the peak of the Arab oil embargo. Governor McCall had motorists buying gas on odd or even days, according to the last digit on their license plates, and there were still reports of craziness at the pumps.

"The patients call me Joe," he introduced himself. "Joe Go."

Joe Go was a young Irish-Italian, wearing a hopeful expression and a St. Jude the Obscure pin for a tie clasp. He was very soft-spoken. After he accepted a chair and a cup of coffee, he shyly asked about the picture-covered book in front of me.

"It's just an I Ching," I explained, "with its cover collaged with photographs. I was about to ask it whether to go or not to go. Then you showed up. I better pack my suit."

"Better pack the book too," he said with a grin. "In case we need to ask about coming back."

Betsy was completely taken by his altar boy innocence. While I packed she kept bringing him coffee with blueberry muffins and big smiles. The kids on the other hand had nothing but frowns for Doctor Joe. After all, they had never been to Disney World – not to Disneyland in Anaheim, even. If innocent young company was what was needed in Florida, couldn't I take one of them along? They each made their bid a few times, then moped off in protest, all except for little Caleb. The ten-year-old remained at the table in his long Grateful Dead nightshirt and his longing face. He yearned to go as much as his brother or sisters, but it wasn't Caleb's style to mope off and maybe miss something else. He was the only one that came outside to wish us farewell, too.

"Remember to bring us something back from Disney World, Dad," he called from the porch, his voice brave. "Something neat, aw-right?"

"Aw-right," I called back as I climbed into the car. I waved but he didn't wave back – he couldn't see me through the Lincoln's tinted safety glass. The thing was big as a barge. I told Doctor Joe he'd better back it out instead of trying to turn around between our blueberries. "They're hard enough to keep alive."

He started down our drive in reverse, twisting out his door to try to miss the deepest holes. I buckled my seatbelt and rolled with the bouncing. After a night of getting nowhere on my own, I found I liked the idea of being picked up and carried away. I was leaning back to try the cushy headrest when, from out of nowhere, something yanked me straight up and wide-eyed, something deeper than any of our chuckholes.

It was that same tugging sensation again, to the tenth power – still as enigmatic and even more familiar, like a dream so meaningful that it jolts you awake, then you can't remember what it was about. It only lasted a second or two before it faded, leaving me dumbfounded. What the hell was it? Simply the thought of going back up to that hospital and having to face that face again? Some kind of hangfire out of the past bounced loose?

"What's the best way back from here?"

It took a moment to realize the young doctor was asking me the best way back to Portland. He'd come to the end of our driveway.

"Well, I go that way if I'm in a hurry." I pointed up the hill. "Or down through Nebo and Brownsville if I've got time for a peaceful cruise."

He backed around headed downhill. "We've got plenty of time," he said, and reached over to open a leather case that was waiting on the seat between us. It looked like an old-fashioned sample case for patent medicines. Neatly arranged between the dividers was an extensive selection of those miniature bottles of brand liquors, dozens of them.

"It looks like things have changed since I was connected with the mental health business," I observed.

"Some ways yes, some ways no," he said, choosing a tiny Johnny Walker. "Less restrictions, more medications. Still no cures. Help yourself."

Conversation was sparse. The young man was more of a one-liner than a talker, and I would have been content to keep quiet and go over the mystery of that thing that had hit me back in the blueberries, or go to sleep. But with the help of the long drive and the medicine kit we gradually got to know each other. Doctor Joe had rebounded into psychology after flunking out of the field of his true interest: genetics. Both the Latin and the Gaelic sides of his family had histories of mental disease, not to mention a lot of crazy poets and painters and priests. Joe said he had inherited a lot of bad art, blind faith, and troubling questions. Also, he said he was going to the convention for the same reason I was – to see Dr. Klaus Woofner. He said he had been a fan since his undergrad days at Queens.