Ah.
I couldn’t believe it. He said he wanted me to meet some people. So I went with him. I wanted to ask him so many questions, find out what he’d been doing the last five years. He was both as I remembered him, underneath that scraggly beard, and also someone new, some kind of mad street prophet. He struck me as someone who’d seen things. Things that damage you or at least leave you permanently altered. As I tried to keep up with him he muttered and mumbled a stream of nonsense I just barely couldn’t hear. Whenever I tried to stop him and ask him to repeat himself he just said, “You’ll get debriefed, don’t worry.” I noticed he stunk, like he’d been sleeping in spoiled milk. And yet… the guy seemed so fucking alive.
We left Chinatown and hopped on a series of buses that took us to Berkeley. He didn’t say much during the ride. Just stared straight ahead mostly. I decided I’d keep my mouth shut and let this play out. I’d abandoned my search for him and gotten rich, found myself unemployed, and now here was the path again, intersecting with my life when I least expected it. We got off in Berkeley and walked for what felt like a mile, into a typical residential neighborhood. Little Victorians in various states of renovation. Dogs and flower beds, barbecues, that kind of place. We came to a red house with a door that had a little slot where the peek hole was supposed to be. Nick texted someone and a few seconds later the little slot slid open and two eyes stared out at us. When they saw me, they widened, and the slot slammed shut. Nick appeared to text someone back and forth for a while, angrily muttering the whole time. Finally the door opened and a guy grabbed both Nick and me and pulled us in. Big dude, wearing a UC Santa Cruz sweatshirt, red afro, handlebar mustache. He dragged us to a door leading down to a basement. As we descended we were hit with these really bright lights and all these voices yelling and arguing. I could only make out silhouettes at first but it sounded like twenty or so people.
The voices calmed down as a woman yelled for them to shut up. Then she said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Frog?” It took me a second to realize that Frog was Nick. Nick unshielded his eyes and spoke in a stammer. He said he’d brought me here because we had taken an oath of brotherhood years before and he knew he could trust me.
“This wasn’t the protocol,” the woman said.
Nick said, “I understand that, Swan. But the plan had to change. He spotted me.”
Swan said, “Well you know he can’t go back to his natural habitat now, don’t you? Now that you’ve brought him here?”
I spoke up and said, “Look, I’m not sure who you people are but can someone tell me—”
The woman commanded me to shut the fuck up. Now my eyes were starting to adjust and I could see that Swan was a black woman about forty years old. You could have passed any of these people on the streets of Berkeley and not looked twice. I wondered if this was some new offshoot of the Symbionese Liberation Army or some other kind of revolutionary group. I was scared, I really was. Hours before I’d been sitting in the comfortable house I shared with two of the kindest people I’d ever known, and now I was back together with Nick, wondering if my ass was about to get handed to me.
Nick said, “He has 12.7 million in the bank.”
Then me, dork that I am, trying to dig myself out of whatever hole it was that I’d found myself in, said, “I’d be happy to loan you folks some money to help, you know, your cause or whatever this is.” I was thinking this might be a way to get me out the door.
“It’s not money we need,” Swan said, then leaned in close to me, staring so intensely I felt I was being audited. “Can you drive a stick shift?”
A stick shift?
A stick shift, yeah, that’s what she asked. Whether I could drive a stick. And I have to say I laughed. Suddenly this didn’t seem like a revolutionary group. It was just a bunch of punks, probably dealing acid and worrying about getting busted. So I said, “What, they didn’t teach you how to drive stick in the Kirkpatrick Driving Academy of Human Potential?”
The room erupted again, shouting. When Swan finally managed to shut everyone up, she said, “We never say that name around here. Now please answer my question. Can you drive a stick-shift car?”
“Sure,” I said. “Until recently I drove a manual VW bus.”
Swan clapped her hands together. “Perfect!” she said. “Let’s eat, what do you say?”
Suddenly everyone was being cordial and helping me with my coat, showing me to a place at a table. Swan sat on one side of me, Nick on the other. One by one the other members of the group introduced themselves. They all had animal names. Muskrat, Squirrel, Crow, Salmon, Bear, Owl, Horse. From upstairs came big bowls and platters of food, that good hippie food I’d grown to love. Emboldened by the sudden change of tone, I asked Swan who they were.
“We’re the dropouts,” she said. “Dropouts from that institution you mentioned.”
“So it does exist,” I said.
She said, “Of course it exists. It’s a foundation, an incubator designed to cultivate inventors. Those who have the potential to bring about paradigmatic change. It seeks to direct the course of history by coordinating the efforts of individuals who fit certain profiles. It brings these individuals together in the hopes that when they work collaboratively, the magnitude of the historical shifts they bring about will be greater than if these individuals had been working alone.”
“Like gestalt theory.”
Swan rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, something like that.”
“Why did you drop out?” I asked.
Swan avoided the question. “You do realize your life with Wyatt and Erika is over, don’t you?” she said. “That you’ve chosen to pursue this path again, and that your efforts must now be synonymous with the efforts of the collective?”
I said sure, whatever. The hokey SLA mind-trick shtick wasn’t working on me. Maybe if they’d had submachine guns shoved at my ribs I’d have felt differently but for now at least all I saw were young leftists eating hummus and talkin’ ’bout a revolution. I’d been immersed among these types for years in the Bay Area. A lot of talk, little to no action. I knew I’d be able to return home anytime I wanted, regardless of what these blowhards were saying. For all I knew the Kirkpatrick Academy of Human Potential was one of those night-course places upstairs from a Korean grocery store offering certificates in “business studies.” So I just went along with the game and said, “Yes, I know my old life is over.”
I think Swan could tell I was bullshitting her but she continued. “Have you ever met a slave, Luke?” she asked. The question took me aback, coming from a black person. I stammered out a no. She said, “Really? You’ve never been to a mall? You’ve never watched shoppers with their carts piled with soda and microwavable food? You’ve never stayed in a hotel where a fifty-year-old Mexican mother of six scrubs your shit stains off the toilet bowl? You’ve never watched TV for five hours straight?” She went on to explain their theory, sort of a pseudo-Marxist vision of the gemeinschaft and the gessellschaft, the ruling class and the underclass, the proletariat and the elite, the haves and have-nots, the first world and the third. According to Swan, Mr. Kirkpatrick, whose name she refused to utter, had founded the academy as a method to ensure that those in power stayed in power, that those enslaved remained enslaved. The dropouts were the students who refused to go along with this philosophy and had instead allied themselves with the underclass, struggling for equality. Or maybe it was the other way around. It was all a little fuzzy. I asked her about Dirk Bickle. She said Bickle was one of Kirkpatrick’s agents, traveling the world in search of candidates to ensnare in the program.