is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn't.
—Mark Twain
I flew from L.A. to New Mexico to meet Zav Rosensweig, a field archeologist living like a hermit while working in the desert.
He claimed to have made an astounding discovery but when I got there it seemed like Zav's momentous find was simply a desert plant with hallucinogenic properties.
Mind you, he says it was very mysterious and had something to do with shape shifters and disappearing desert nomads.
But knowing how hard-headed and practical Zav is, the fact that he's describing something incredible makes his story so damn irresistible.
Still, just hearing him talk I have to roll my eyes.
“No man—it ain’t like that," he insists, " I wasn’t pissed drunk and I’m telling you exactly what I saw.”
“So, what happened—Did you try taking this drug?”
“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 airfare to come down here?”
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 Zav 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 Zav.
“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 dinner time and shortly thereafter, working out in the same small gym with the same tired housewives and an old guy with the 2-pound weights. Fun? Yeah…
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 Zav.
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 hm 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 Zav 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?”
Hershel 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.