 
CONTROL SWITCH ON

A TRUE STORY

The Untold Story of the Most Powerful Man in the World

—RYAN MORAN—

Who Shaped the Planet for Peace

by Ira Teller, Pharm. D., Esq.
Control Switch On: A True Story  
Ira Teller, Pharm. D., Esq.  
Smashwords Edition  
Copyright 2010 by Ira Teller

All Rights Reserved

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Ira Teller, Incorporated, is prohibited and illegal.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes  
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of non-fiction. It is a true story written in the form of a novel. Only the names, dates and places have been altered.

ISBN 1453882030

Printed in the USA

First Edition October 10, 2010
CONTENTS   
PROLOGUE  
CHAPTER ONE: THE PRESENCE  
CHAPTER TWO: ARROGANCE  
CHAPTER THREE: BABA  
CHAPTER FOUR: MOTHER OF THE UNIVERSE  
CHAPTER FIVE: RECLAMATION  
CHAPTER SIX: PSI  
CHAPTER SEVEN: RYAN MORAN  
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE DEVICE  
CHAPTER NINE: MAUREEN  
CHAPTER TEN: MERGING  
CHAPTER ELEVEN: SOMETHING MOST PECULIAR CHAPTER TWELVE: THE BIG BLACK WALL  
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DARK MATTER  
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SHOW TIME  
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FORTUNE COOKIE  
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PATENT PENDING  
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ETCHED IN MY MIND  
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SNAPSHOTS  
CHAPTER NINETEEN: CATHOLIC IRISH ALCOHOLICS CHAPTER TWENTY: BROOKE'S LAW  
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE: ERIKA  
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO: ROAD TRIP  
CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE: INEBRIATED  
CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR: SANCTIONED  
CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE: REMORSE  
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX: THE LONG YEARS  
CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN: RESET  
CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT: WONDERMENT  
CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE: LEGACY  
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE

"There is one principle that bars all other principles..."

WHAT IS BIG? As a child, this was the title of one of the first books I ever read. A picture of an obviously large elephant next to a tiny mouse adorned the front cover to illustrate for young children the difference between large and small. Every calf in the herd, fry in the sea, and chick in the sky learns this same lesson about relative size. The difference between large and small is a reality that permeates this whole world. Later, as an adult, I would revisit these relative extremes in size in a new way and on a scale that I could have never previously imagined. After I had met the most powerful man in the world, I had learned firsthand—in a stunning and profound way—the answer to the question, what is big?

The most powerful man in the world was Ryan Moran, and until his death, we were friends and business partners for nearly a quarter of a century. Ryan had founded and once ran the largest, most powerful transnational corporation on the face of the planet. Yes, he was big, powerful, and a legend among all those who knew him and knew about him. Whether through the barrel of a gun, a signature put to a document, or a mere idea placed into another's mind, Ryan Moran personified big. Although unknown to most people, until now, Ryan nonetheless touched the lives of many through the vastness of his corporate empire and far-reaching personal sacrifices. Like a pebble cast into a pond, the life of Ryan Moran cast waves upon waves of influence and change that have spread with infinite scope across the world—no one has been left unaffected, not even you. Ryan Moran's life and legacy has touched all our lives in profound and lasting ways. This book is based upon my recollections of my conversations, adventures, and friendship with the most powerful and influential man in the world—Ryan Moran.

The notion of the nation-state no longer exists as it once did—the United States, Russia, Germany, China, Japan, and all other nations are now controlled by transnational corporations. These transnationals are their own entities, owing no allegiance to any one nation but having holdings and influence in them all. They exist offshore—they are incorporated in financial centers outside the jurisdiction of their primary operations—yet they control the financial and political outcomes of all countries. Operating with their own set of rules, regulations, and laws that transcend those of the nation-states, some transnationals (as you may already know) are so powerful that they even have their own armies. As the man who once controlled the largest and most powerful transnational organization, Ryan had stewardship over the world. Decide for yourself how big that is.

Ryan Moran was an existentialist, clearly knowing who he was and his role in the universe. Arguably, few people possess a sense of self and purpose as strongly as he did. The world was his to direct, and he did so by wielding a raw, unmitigated power that flowed from his innate, profound sense of self. Some standing in his presence would feel intimidated, as Ryan's presence was often truly palpable. When I asked about this, he explained, "They see within me that which they do not yet have in themselves." This is not to say that Ryan Moran was without faults. To the contrary, he knew his character defects and openly acknowledged them, seeking corrective action. But what by far outshined all else was his humility and wanting to do good as he lived among us. When I asked him why he set up his organization, he responded, "To do good in the world."

Perhaps one of the greatest means by which Ryan could do good in the world was facilitated by the development of a new technology, the Psi-control Switch—the most advanced technology that has ever yet existed. How did Ryan learn of the Psi-control Switch? Not in any top-secret governmental meetings. Not from top physicists or engineers. To learn of this device and how Ryan learned of it, you will have to read on and be introduced to me, Ira Teller, the unsuspecting pharmacist with a dream who happened to meet Ryan Moran one day. Our chance encounter would later change the course of the world and launch the future of the Psi-control Switch for the benefit of mankind.

To tell you a bit about myself, I am anomalistic—the outlier point on the curve which, to most, is seen as different. Granted, at times my way of thinking can be tangential and angled from the norm, but I have embraced this as a positive attribute, and it is the reason that I am telling this story to you; I was able to see something different from the norm in Ryan, a unique superiority of thought and purpose that most others could not discern about the man. You see, I am an explorer, an adventurer, which requires residing near the edge, being dangerously close to the abyss. My journeys through the physical world, my ascent within the spiritual realm, and my scientific explorations of psychical domains are a collective testimony to this. If I had stayed in the middle, in the norm, then Ryan and I would never have met, this story would have never been told, and the world would not have been changed for the better. Ryan was fond of paraphrasing Herbert Spencer, "There is one principle that bars all other principles, and that is contempt prior to investigation." How true this is. There will always be the contemptuous naysayers, doubters, and conspiracy theorists who have not traveled far, yet they will try to bar the idea that Psi-control Switches exist, and that one man, Ryan Moran, shaped the destiny of the world. But for those of you who want to explore and investigate, I ask that you bear with me, if only for a relatively brief moment in time. Try to see your universe from a different perspective—try seeing through the shared vision of Ryan Moran and me.

Here, I will offer a special note to historians, present and future. I apologize if some accuracy has been lost by the long passage of time. As one would expect, there may be some unintended alterations to my recollections. Incidents, events, dates, names, and conversations may not necessarily be quite as accurate or even in as perfect an order as they ideally should be. I will, nonetheless, do my best to recall and recount these details in a fair way so as to at least give you the flavor and feeling of the situations as they unfolded. Furthermore, there are aspects of Ryan's life and of my life that I cannot yet reveal at this time in order to protect myself and others. As Ryan often told me, "Sometimes the withholding of a small part of the truth is not only wise, but prudent." I believe it is extremely prudent in this case. Matters and names related to national security issues will not be discussed except in the most discreet fashion, as Ryan's world was a world of secrets, and he was, indeed, the master of secrets. Although Ryan's love life was prolific, there are those who may not want this disclosed. Consequently, this intimate subject matter will be mentioned in only the most scant and rudimentary ways, cleansed to some extent so as not to disrupt others' lives in an adverse way. While the scope of Ryan Moran's life could fill volumes, I will try my best to set down the key points of his life throughout the years that I knew him, and of our history-altering involvement with the Psi-control Switch. Historians and others are welcome to examine the life of Ryan Moran long after my death. Like you and me, they too will have to revisit the question of what is big.
CHAPTER ONE: THE PRESENCE

"Where are you going, son?"

Fifty million dead—both soldiers and the innocent—slaughtered and butchered in a bloodbath of unimaginable proportions. Young and old, rich and poor, women and children—it did not matter. They were all caught up in the gears of that Great War machine called World War II, only to be churned out in rivers of blood, with shredded bodies spewed out upon the land. Their screams for mercy and horrible last cries of pain were met by an icy indifference, smothered by the insanity of it all. It was then, in the midst of that great horror, that agents in the various intelligence communities met in secret. These were those men who witnessed the horror of that period first hand. Talking among themselves, they knew there needed to be a better way to stabilize governments, nations, and peoples; consequently, they swore their allegiance to one another to never let a war like this happen again. These were not just agents of the Allies but included their like-minded counterparts on the opposite side, agents of the Axis powers. Suffering can bind people together in unusual ways. Men who were willing to meet one another in warfare now met to fight a different kind of battle—a battle of ideology, stability, and peace. And so, after convening to ponder their strategies, these agents returned to their respective homeland agencies scattered about the world, knowing that something needed to be done. They kept in touch with one another as they formed a loose affiliation of covert progenitor cells underlying their own individual organizations. They could not have known that a redeemer was coming—Ryan Moran would be the one to eventually unify them into an international intelligence agency surpassing all other intelligence agencies in scale and scope. It would become the largest and most powerful agency in the world. This is how it all started, and this is what Ryan Moran told me.

I was restless as a teenager—still filled with the freshness of life and the exhilaration of adventure, but I didn't know the nature of the world or my place within it. Odd, isn't it, that I should be searching for something but did not know what. Somehow, I had this notion that the more experiences a person had, the better they would be. Perhaps, hidden somewhere in the midst of all this, I would find the object of my search.

With caution and reason cast aside, I made a purposeful attempt to take it all in—whatever came my way. I set out to explore the world and my place in it, as so many did... by thumbing rides. It was the golden age of hitchhiking, with the images of Woodstock, war protests, and the summer of love still fresh in my mind. 'Never turned down a ride—no, not even once—for that was the hitchhikers' creed. I let the road be my teacher, and I was the eager student willing to learn. Whatever joy or harshness the road presented, I accepted. Ride it to the very end, was my motto.

So, I was on the road again, with the wind to my back and the sun's warmth upon my face, when I saw it far off in the distance. An orange-colored VW bus was among the other vehicles traveling on the road that day. I had chosen my hitchhiker sign with care: one said North, one said South, one said East, and another West, but my favorite said Anywhere. With a knowing sense of assurance, I put out my thumb and waited.

There was an almost magical connection between a hitchhiker and a VW van in those days; like a magnet pulling on steel, you could feel the connection. I was a master of the road, having hitched tens of thousands of miles, and this was just one of my many rides. With all the crazies, drunks, and creatures of the night, I rode along while listening to their wild stories and experiencing their bizarre worlds. From mothers and saintly Sunday churchgoers, to witches and warlocks with sinful pasts and secret books, I sat sharing their lives. So many winding roads were filled with so many varied people and unknown places—a virtual stream of consciousness. Like a constant game of tag, I went from vehicle to vehicle where I was always "it," and wherever they went, so would I. A monkey throwing darts at a cosmic map must have been my guide. Rain or snow, black or white or shades in between, on the back of a tractor, in the cab of a truck, or in a VW van, it did not matter—regardless of who or what came my way, I continued the journey.

"Beware!" some people would caution me, as I entered their cars, "There is a killer on the loose!" Then, they would ask me, in their own nervous way, if I was him. No matter who stopped to give me a ride, each had their own reason for stopping, whether they were lonely, tired, good-willed, curious, or just wanted an adventure of their own. Some claimed that they recognized me, while others asked, "Where are you going, son?"

"Wherever you are going," I would reply.

The farmers, salesmen, and students all had someplace to be; so, like the wind blowing the winged seeds of a dandelion, I allowed myself to be spread across the land.

Now, standing on the side of the road in Arizona's summer heat, I watched as the approaching VW began to swerve in and out of traffic until it finally pulled up to me and came to a halt. The driver rolled down his window and smiled broadly, "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere," I answered, smiling back.

The front of the vehicle was packed full with him, his wife, and their two children. Behind them was a pile of luggage that filled the van. He said, "We're going to the Grand Canyon, but we don't have any more room in the van."

"Can I hop on top and sit on the luggage rack?" I asked. "Sure," he grinned, "climb on!" And that I did.

It was a glorious ride that day. Passersby would blow their horns and shout, waving to me as we drove along the rim of that great canyon. What a spectacle! Feeling uplifted, and riding so high above the road, I sat on my kingly throne of luggage reveling in the exhilaration of this new adventure. Eventually, the van pulled over at the roadside and stopped. I climbed down, thanked them for the ride, and with smiling faces we parted our ways.

Although I did not know it then, it had been a ride to my destiny.

The sun soon began to set, filling the Grand Canyon with shadows and blackness, eventually forming an infinite pool of darkness. Nearby, a trail led down into the canyon's murky depths, the trail head marked with a small sign stating, This way to the bottom. Some people, looking weary and tired, stumbled up to the head of the trail, finishing their climb. I started my descent, yearning to find out what was so grand about this rather large void of nothingness that held so many peoples' attention. It was a long and arduous walk down a narrow and winding path. Darkness prevailed as there was no moon that night. Every now and then, I would meet another person or a couple of people making their ascent along the way. Ghostly and ash-colored in appearance, they proceeded upward, in the opposite direction, in an exhausted silence and soon vanished into the night. I persisted downward, and spurred on by with my desire to get to the bottom before daybreak, I picked up a brisk pace.

Soon, I came to a place that was particularly steep and close to the canyon's rim. There, in a foolish hurry, I lost my footing on some loose rocks, fell onto my back, and slid toward the precipice. Sliding perilously downward, I clawed at the rocks and dirt in a dusty panic, trying anything to stop myself... but... in just a few frightful seconds... I slid over the edge. As a final act of desperation, I grabbed onto a branch of scrub brush—stopping my fall and certain demise. For an instant, I dangled there, clutching the bit of brush—it was all that held me back from drawing my last breath. With eyes wide, and a herculean effort, I pulled myself up onto the edge of the rim and scrambled back a few feet. I sat there, momentarily short of breath, shaking and trembling from the inside out, and knowing that death had been near.

Then... I felt a presence descend upon me. Mist-like, and imparting the sense that someone was holding me, I sat in awe and silence. Comforting and yet strange at the same time, it caressed me in a loving way that I had never experienced before. Ephemeral at best, it soon lifted, merging back into the night. Confused, I looked around, but no one was there. Slowly standing to my feet, I stared up into the blackness of the sky to see all those stars. There were millions and millions of them twinkling in the warm desert night, forming the great Milky Way. In my bewilderment and astonishment, I shouted out to them, "Who are you?" but I heard only my echo off in the distance. Although the question was never answered, I knew that I had a momentary glimpse of the infinite. This must be the inner workings of the universe, I thought to myself that night. Trying to grasp it with my mind, I wondered what fortune would come my way.
CHAPTER TWO: ARROGANCE

"Boy, that was bizarre!"

Nearly a decade had passed since I experienced the puzzling spiritual presence that descended upon me in the Grand Canyon. I filled this chasm of time by studying the world and its multitude complexities in hopes of better understanding the inner workings of the universe, and knowing who I was and where I fit in the grand scheme of things. Leaving the wanderlust of the open road behind me, I embarked on a new journey—the disciplines and rigors of university course work. I had decided to learn more about the world through books and lectures, and the inevitable personal growth that campus life and its unique socialization has to offer. Here, I hoped to develop the knowledge and skills necessary to prepare myself for the rigors of life, and for, perhaps, making a difference in the world. Maybe, along the way, I would even gain some insight into the enigmatic presence I encountered that day at the Grand Canyon. But it soon became apparent, through my studies, that I would need to conform to the economic realities of our time. I could not be an ideological, pioneering, perpetual student for the rest of my days. Financial imperatives and being gainfully employed ruled the day. For a hitchhiker like myself, this conformity was not always an easy fit, and many times the proverbial square peg had to be forced through the round hole. The way of the hitchhiker's road is not always well accepted in higher levels of academia. It is easily misunderstood. Yet in the end I was able to pass their tests and join society, eager to make my mark.

What arrogance I had, as I look back upon the landscape of my early years. I had just finished my Doctor of Pharmacy degree—a professional doctorate degree with an emphasis in clinical pharmacy—and I was working as a pharmacist at Lockport Community Hospital in Mapleton, New York. Surely I was someone to be reckoned with. Had I not just finished studying the biological and chemical sciences that were the underpinning for modern day drug therapy, and hence, wasn't I helping to define the next decade of medical therapies? As an expert, I was well paid in an area of burgeoning importance to the medical community and to the world at large. Who can argue with an expert? Medical practitioners sought me out for my views and opinions in life and death matters. Unquestionably, I must have been someone important. It was within this rigid, inner mental framework—this plague of grandiosity upon my mind—that I would learn something of significance.

I read an article by Dolores Krieger, RN, PhD, about a healing technique that she and a clairvoyant colleague had developed in the Division of Nursing at New York University called Therapeutic Touch. She was training nurses to use their hands to smooth and redirect the energy fields surrounding patients as a transpersonal healing modality. Aura combing, humph! Indeed! I thought, to myself. This new age fluff certainly flew in the face of all the science I had learned, having no just reason for being published let alone taught.

My thoughts brought me back to my eleventh grade high school friend, Scott, and an event that took place in his parents' house. His family was gone for the day, and we were alone in the kitchen. He pulled a large bowl from out of a cupboard, filled it with water from the sink, and placed it in the center of the kitchen table. Then he took a small piece of aluminum foil, fashioned it into what he called a small boat, and floated it in the middle of the bowl. I was instructed to sit in a chair on my side of the table while he sat opposite me, and using only our minds... we were to push the boat. The person who could push the boat to the other person's side would be the winner. So, we sat there in complete silence, locked in mortal combat, each trying to push the boat to the other's side with our minds. I focused my mind on the boat, and so did he, but... it did not budge. It felt like an eternity as we sat there. I doubled my intensity, as did he, but still... no movement. After about ten grueling minutes of mental warfare, I broke off and told him that I did not think that this was going to work. He also broke off his mental grip upon the boat and told me that it was not working because we could not sufficiently focus our mental energy. He explained to me that if he was to take a sheet of the aluminum foil and smear it with peanut butter, then place another sheet on top of it and smear it with peanut butter, and was to do so again and again, it would be of the correct size that he could then shape it in the form of a pyramid. This, we could place upon our heads which would give us the power to move the boat. Scott went for the peanut butter, and I went for the door saying, as I hurriedly left his house, "I'll see you later, Scott," while thinking, Boy, that was bizarre!

With this memory of Scott's peanut-butter-pyramid hats fresh in my mind, I crafted a disdainful letter to Doctor Krieger. This was the first time that I had ever written a critically scathing letter like this and, to date, the last time also. I do not clearly remember what I wrote, other than asking how she could publish such dribble without proper scientific understanding and documentation. I smugly dropped the letter into the mail box and waited for her reply, certain of the outcome. Shortly thereafter, she wrote back to me with a letter of her own. She was kind and gentle, and merely asked that I read the literature—of which she enclosed several references—before I was to be so critical. I read the so-called references, scoffed at them, and, in my arrogance, tossed her letter to the side of my desk, thankful that I was not of such like mindedness.

No doubt, my inflated ego had gotten the best of me. I needed to be someone greater than myself, someone of importance, respected. I needed to be big. Perhaps then people would like me even more, cultivating and perpetuating my ego to even greater proportions in an act of self-aggrandizement. Maybe then I would even like myself. Little did I realize that the universe was about to hand me a series of ego-reducing lessons—teaching me what was big.
CHAPTER THREE: BABA

"Keep with the flow."

I had arrived early for an evening meditation program in Mahnaville, New York, so I stopped into a small commissary that was located inside the ashram. A meditation teacher, named Tom, had recommended that I meet someone whom he considered to be a great spiritual being—Baba. Sitting down on a bench between two people who were seated at a table, I turned towards the young woman who was on my left, hoping to ask her a few questions. "Excuse me," I said, trying to get her attention—but she did not respond. "Excuse me," I said, again, with a little more force—but, again, no response. That is when I had a chance to study her face. I noticed that her eyes were rolled up into their sockets so that only the whites showed, while she gently rocked back and forth. Rather odd, I thought. Perhaps it's a cross between seizures and autism. Somewhat disturbed by the sight, I turned my attention to the gentleman who was seated to my right; perhaps he could tell me something about Baba. He was slowly eating a large salad that was heaped to the top with sprouts, as was customary in those days. "Excuse me," I said.

He turned toward me, still chewing his salad.

"What is this place all about?" I asked him.

He took a few more chews, swallowed, and said in a slow, yet deliberate voice, "Stars and stripes forever."

"Huh?" I replied.

"Stars and stripes forever," he enunciated, in an even more forceful tone. Then he waved his hand as if to dismiss me and returned to his salad.

Well, I thought, maybe they weren't the pick of the litter. Move along, I told myself. Keep with the flow.

I made my way to the front of the building where someone told me that it was customary to bring a small gift when meeting a saint. So, I purchased an apple from their concession, thinking it a rather inexpensive price of admission, and entered the main hall. The room was large, and I estimated that it could hold nearly a thousand people. A greeter approached me and informed me that it was traditional for men to sit on the right side of the hall, and for women to sit on the left side. With a nod of my head as a silent acknowledgement, I took my place and sat down on the carpeted floor... on the right side of the hall.

Looking about, I was perplexed by the sights and sounds around me. Certainly, this was different than anything I was used to. Large pictures of Indian men and women, dressed in somewhat traditional garb, adorned the walls, and pungent incense wafted through the air. Hundreds of people slowly drifted past me, each looking for a place to sit. Some carried small pillows, whereas others wore colorful shawls about their shoulders. They filled the hall to capacity, and then began settling down.

Yes, I know—earlier I had said that when hitching rides, regardless of who or what came my way, I would continue my journey. Now, as I sat on the floor... I began to wonder if I should continue this particular journey. But my thoughts were quickly interrupted.

A hush fell over the room as an announcer began to talk about this great and remarkable man whom we were about to meet. The announcer told us how his life had become completely transformed after he had met Baba. Gradually, the lights dimmed as everyone began to chant a mantra in a slow, rhythmic fashion, accompanied by Indian music. Shortly thereafter, the lights came back on, and there, seated in a rather oversized chair, was a small, somewhat elderly man from India. He wore a bright orange robe, had a slight smile upon his face, and was painted with a red dot upon his forehead. To his right was an attractive, well-dressed, young Indian woman by the name of Indrani who was his translator. She said that his name was Baba, and she interpreted the foreign and strange language as he began to speak. I remember little of what was said, except for the words, "the Self," "God," and "Where are you going?" After about an hour of Baba talking, we were invited to come to the front of the hall to meet him.

People lined up in an orderly fashion, standing several abreast, waiting to meet him. It was a process that I had not previously experienced, but I took my place among them, clutching my small gift of an apple. I watched as those in the front of the line knelt down before him and bowed with a lowering of their heads to the floor. Simultaneously, they placed a small gift into a wicker basket at his feet then looked back up at him. He, in turn, would gently swat them on the head and shoulders with a large bundle of peacock feathers as they conversed with him through the translator. Shortly thereafter, they stood up and moved out of the way, making room for the next person to bow and prostrate themselves.

Finally, my turn came. So I dropped to my knees, as I had seen others do, placed the apple into the basket, and for the first time in my life, I bowed to another human being. When I first looked up, Baba was looking down from his chair and smiling at me. Then, suddenly, a knife came out from under his robes, its steel blade glinting in the bright light. I gasped, and the crowd drew in an audible, stunned breath as he wielded the large, flashing blade over his head. Without warning, he made a menacing face and shouted at me, "—Arrgh!" Shocked and astonished by the sight, I instinctively crouched down lower, throwing up my arms as a defense against this mad man. But then I noticed that he had begun to smile, and soon he erupted into a full-blown, joyous laugh. Inquisitively, I searched his eyes, not knowing what to do. My heart was still pounding and I was trembling. He put the knife down on the table at his side. Now issuing a quieter, light-hearted laugh, he began hitting me on the head with the peacock feathers, and then he started talking to me.

His translator, in perfect English and a dispassionate voice, said, "Baba wants to know what is your name?"

I tried, in vain, to talk back, saying, "I uh... I uh...", as I contorted my face, but no coherent words would come out.

Now, with more of a grin than a smile, he spoke to me again, all the while swatting me with the peacock feathers. "Baba wants to know where you are from," stated his translator.

Still, I could not speak as I groped for words. What's happening?! raced through my mind. Normally, I was glib and quick of tongue in social situations, but now, only sounds of gibberish came out from my lips in my bewildered state. I felt as though something had been severed between my mind and my voice.

Finally, he rested the feathers upon my head and asked through his translator, "What do you do?"

To my utter disbelief, I was still unable to utter even the simplest of words.

He started laughing loudly again and removed the feathers from my head.

I stood up and started my exit out of the hall. Someone gently grabbed my arm and said, "You are so lucky that Baba paid so much attention to you."

"Uh, sure," I said, finally regaining my voice. "Say, what was the deal with the knife?" I asked.

"Oh—," he explained, "that is a chopping knife that they use in the kitchen to chop vegetables. Someone just before you gave it to Baba as a gift. He put it under his robes waiting to surprise you."

"Surprise me?" I asked, becoming agitated. "He sure as hell did! He scared the crap out of me!" I hurried to exit the building, telling myself, Well, if you've seen one Guru, you've seen them all.
CHAPTER FOUR: MOTHER OF THE UNIVERSE

"What is this?"

I paid little attention to the Baba experience and went about my usual business for several days. I enjoyed most of my hospital duties—applying my clinical skills in the intensive care unit, the emergency room, and the chemotherapy unit—because helping others gave me a lot of satisfaction. On my days off, my friends and I hiked in the nearby woods, and in the evenings, we socialized in the various restaurants and bars. This pattern of life felt good, and at times, fun; yet, it had a degree of predictability about it—a degree of routine. Being relatively young—I was only 27—and not having much perspective on life, I assumed that this is what I would be doing for the rest of my days. Still, I wondered, is this all there is— the day to day, the ordinary?

One Saturday morning, I sat down in my living-room to meditate. Relaxed in my chair, I noticed that something was different from previous meditations as I felt that I was floating downward into a deep, dark pool of nothingness. Although this sense of descending into a deep void was different than other meditations, I nonetheless felt at ease and comforted... but then, suddenly, a brilliant but somewhat small, blue sphere appeared in my mind's eye. It sparkled, and I was fascinated by its luminescence; I had never seen such a sight before. I watched it in complete awe, mesmerized by its effervescent luster—a glow that seemed to be holding me more than my gaze was holding it. Then, abruptly, shooting out from its side, a darker ray of blue light—like that of a search beacon from a light house—pierced the darkness extending to the visual horizon of my mind. Wow! My mind reeled in astonishment. What is this? Then, very slowly, the sparkling sphere began a clockwise rotation as the darker ray of blue light rotated closer toward me. I was spellbound by this unbelievable vision as the ray of light moved closer and closer, finally hitting me squarely between the eyes.

With a blast of illuminating brilliance, I felt a cracking open of my consciousness. Like water flowing out of a breech in a dam, I felt an unfolding as though my core was being poured out into the universe.

And then, there, she appeared before me, with her dark eyes and a slightly lighter shade of skin—the great mother of the universe. Her luminous face filling my field of vision, a look of profound contentment was upon her. Magnificent waves of long, black hair were draped about her face, and then began to slowly float upward, framing her cheeks as if blown by a cosmic wind. The black tendrils floated up and outward, stretching from both sides of her face to the adjacent horizons, and as the flowing waves stretched outward, so too did my consciousness. Out to the ends of the universe we went, where on both sides of her face I could see stars, planets, and galaxies pasted upon the blackness that extended outward, beyond infinity. What a magnificent sight! As if it was a gift, the entire universe was placed before me, and I bathed in its delights, joyous and free.

Abruptly, I felt a jolt run upward along my back. I began to shake violently for several minutes, as though some large, universal hand had grabbed my spine and was shaking me from side to side in a dizzying fashion. My eyes shot open, and I jumped to my feet more in abject surprise than fear. In a state of ecstatic bewilderment, I found Tom's phone number and dialed. It seemed like an eternity before he picked up. Finally, he answered.

"Tom?" I asked.

"Yes—,"

"This is Ira. What the hell is going on?!"

"What do you mean, 'What is going on?'" he asked.

I then told him the story of what had just happened as best as I could.

"Oh," he said, in a dry, matter-of-fact manner, "he wants you."

"He wants me?" I asked "Yes," Tom replied. "He just wants you."

"Who 'just' wants me?" I asked, feeling more than a little confused.

"Baba. Baba wants you."

I hung up the phone, saying to myself in a puzzled voice, Baba wants me?
CHAPTER FIVE: RECLAMATION

"What kind of an asylum is this?"

I had a dilemma, a real predicament. Like a mule standing equidistant between two bales of hay, not knowing which to choose, I was ready to starve rather than make a choice. Pay money to find God? It was mind boggling and went against the grain. Besides, what was God worth? But there I was, standing in line to register at what Tom told me was an intensive meditation retreat at an ashram—where, if I paid a fee, Baba, the Indian Guru, could give me a direct experience of God.

I had a multitude of prior worldly experiences, as if I was seeking something in life, but I had never thought that God was the object of all my searching. Nonetheless, God must have been what I had hungered for all those years. No, I was not one of those on a quest to find God, because the word had never previously entered my thoughts. Jesus revivalists pounding Bibles at the airport, saints in movies on their knees looking upward for divine inspiration, monks in flowing ochre and saffron robes, yes—but me? I had heard and read the word "God" many times, but this was a concept that was too large and elusive for my mind to grasp.

How could I have missed something so big? I wondered, as I stood there waiting to register. The idea that this man, Baba, could give me this experience at a meditation retreat strained against all rational thought. But didn't I experience an unbelievable meditation session just days after being in his presence? Doubts arose in my mind. Maybe it had been my imagination. Maybe I had merely been drifting off and dreaming. Or, maybe it was something in the food or air. Just then, it dawned on me that there was much more non-sense in the world than sense. Wouldn't it be more logical to stay on the side of non-sense as there was more of it? So with that in mind, I cast aside my rational doubts and cautions, made a decision, and put my money down.

Once again, I was sitting in the ashram hall with hundreds of other people. The lights were dimmed, and we were asked to close our eyes and meditate. But being curious, I kept my eyes open and watched. I could not resist. I saw Baba get out of his chair, and with his trusty bundle of peacock feathers and his translator in tow, he moved about the room. Now and again, he would momentarily stand in front of a seated person and swat them on the head and shoulders, as I had previously experienced. Then, after laying his hand upon the person's head for a length of time, he moved onto the next person and carried out the same silent ritual. Some whom he touched would slump down like rag dolls, their heads falling into their laps. Some stayed upright, maintaining their posture but beginning to shake vigorously. Still others issued various unexpected and strange sounds such as crying, laughing, or barking and then roaring like lions.

What kind of an asylum is this? I wondered. Between the shaking, howling, laughing, weeping, and roaring, the raucous hall was now filled with sights and sounds fit for the insane. I was spellbound, hearing and watching this unusual play before me, trying to make sense of it all. For the moment, surrounded by utter madness... I had forgotten that most everything was non-sense; futilely, I tried to engage my rational mind to put some shred of sense to it all.

Now, it was my turn. Baba stood in front of me. I hurriedly closed my eyes and heard a swoosh... swoosh as I felt the feathers upon my head. Momentarily pressing his hand firmly against my forehead, he then moved it down and grabbed the flesh between my eyes. Like a slowly forced injection of liquid light, I felt his essence flow into me. Warm and substantive, it kindled a brilliant and blazing blue-white light that burst forth at the base of my spine. With a searing heat, it quickly raced up my spine, crowning the top of my head with a sparkling incandescence. It was a revelatory moment: I was the light, and the light was me. Nothing else ever existed except for that which Is. I reveled in this state of oneness, basking in its brilliance.
CHAPTER SIX: PSI

"To the moon and beyond...."

"Here's that letter," I told myself, while reshuffling the papers on the table. I quickly reread the letter and muttered, skeptically, under my breath, "Can't be." Shortly afterwards, I was in the library looking up the references that Dr. Krieger had mailed to me. I was going to prove to myself that she was wrong, that therapeutic touch was a bunch of hooey. So, I set about reading the journal articles that she had listed, and soon I was thoroughly immersed in the research literature.

Don't get me wrong, I had no desire at that time to be an advocate of quackery. No poster boy here. To the contrary, I was merely going to investigate the research literature in order to demonstrate that Dr. Krieger's farfetched postulations were incorrect—I would prove this to my own satisfaction, and then go on my merry way. In today's scientific circles if I was to speak in terms of Quantum Mechanics, Schrodinger, or Entanglement, I would be seen as informed and well educated, or at least on the cutting edge. But Dr. Krieger's forte was the manipulation of a bioenergetics field to promote healing, which was contradictory to the principles of modern-day science. Although she was not a parapsychologist, her research and journal articles led me directly down the path to the study of psychic phenomena. You have heard of extrasensory perception (including telepathy and clairvoyance) and psycho kinesis (mind over matter)—to put it politely, strange, weird stuff. About as weird as when my high school friend Scott and I tried to make an aluminum foil "boat" sail in a bowl of water, or, needless to say, as strange as fashioning peanut butter, aluminum foil pyramid hats to intensify our efforts.

Movies and books portrayed psychic individuals and paranormal researchers as horses of a different color with zip codes straight from Mars. Literature and the cinema served up portrayals of demonic, horned individuals with hooves to match who were abundantly worthy of a priest's exorcism. The parapsychologist was often portrayed as the white-coated, frizzy-haired, mad scientist, and his subject was his zombie-like, unblinking prey-turned-cohort. Together, they were bent on psychically infecting your children—and their insanity would soon take over the world. Shutter your windows and lock your doors! Once touched by the paranormal's spell, you were immediately pegged as a flake having gone over the edge. Mind over matter indeed! All parapsychology scientists and those such as Dr. Krieger were stirred into the same great bubbling cauldron of psychic madness. And as I began plowing through the literature, that is how I pegged Dr. Krieger and her ilk—as having zip codes straight from Mars.

"Can't be," I muttered, again, upon delving deeper into the paranormal literature. "These concepts are not from this planet." Certainly no respected scientist or biomedical researcher would ever view Dr. Krieger and the likes of her as responsible members of their community again.

Reading on, I found myself increasingly engrossed in the literature—first for hours, then for weeks, and then for months. There must be a way to explain this, I told myself, but I could not find a logical, rational way to do so. Every time I stepped into a new area of study, I found no exit because one piece of research led to another. The more I read, the more I wanted to read—for if these parapsychologists were even remotely correct in their assumptions, then the outcomes were enormous in their potential. I wondered what my high school friend, Scott, would say.

"Can it be that there is some validity to these psychic concepts?" I muttered, to myself. Granted, most of the parapsychology science was poorly constructed, but there always seemed to be that one thread that I would follow that would lead to the next and the next... until, finally, the outline of a tapestry began to form.

Initially, I tried not to engage others in conversations about the subject matter, but I soon found that I could not help myself. I was too curious, and it was too rich in possibilities. Yes, there was the inevitable rolling of the eyes or the downward glance of contempt by my peers. "But what if...?" I conjectured. Some maintained a cold and icy stare, whereas others would give a bit of a laugh and then a flippant, dismissive wave of the hand. Always, there was the long, awkward silence that followed as they drifted away, all but shaking their heads.

My affinity for the classical healing arts focused my attention on the origination of disease states within the biological sciences. Research in this area of the sciences was complicated and fraught with biological variability that further compounded its inherent complexities. Yet, it made sense to approach healing at the origin of a disease—to prevent it or to treat it early on—rather than try to cure a disease once it had developed or progressed. I made an attempt to see if this nascent psychic science could offer any clues on how to prevent or cure the start of a disease. Consequently, although confusing at first, I similarly focused my attention on this particular concept within the paranormal literature.

I soon learned that the operative phenomenon underlying all parapsychological research is known as psi. This is not to be confused with the acronym psi as a unit of measure (pounds per square inch), the 23rd letter of the Greek alphabet, psi, or PSI, the title of an album by an industrial rock group released in 2002. The term "psi" concerning the paranormal was first coined in 1942 by a biologist, Bertold P. Wiesner, and a psychologist, Robert Thouless. Psi denotes anomalous processes of information or energy transfer, processes such as telepathy or other forms of extrasensory perception currently unexplained in terms of known physical or biological mechanisms. Furthermore, psi is divided into two main categories of paranormal phenomena: extrasensory perception (ESP) and paranormal action, or psycho kinesis (PK). Psycho kinesis held my attention the most. Maddening is the fact that many parapsychologists in this admittedly esoteric and enigmatic field of study do not know what psi is or how it works. Luckily for me, I did not need to know and just wanted to use it.

Could this psi phenomenon of psycho kinesis actually change the energy of activation of chemical reactions and drive them toward different outcomes? Could this mind-over-matter psi change enzymatic reactions at a cellular level and prevent or cure diseases? Some of the research literature indicated that this was indeed possible.

Reading further, I sought out like-minded researchers in this fragile and new field. During our talks, it became apparent that they too had tried to disprove the authority of psychic phenomena, only to be drawn deeper into it. They now had a different view of the world and no longer saw things in linear and Newtonian terms. Rather, there emerged a framework of an omnipresent, evolving consciousness whereby all things were inherently interconnected. My many experiences with meditation came to mind—that profound sense of being one with the universe.

I began to put the pieces together—the scientific and the paranormal—by recalling the concept of a delta switch that we used in a radiological preparations course I had once taken. Simply put, when the level of radiation of an isotope increased and reached a certain set point, the delta switch would kick in, setting off an alarm to warn us of the danger. Likewise, if I could monitor the change, the quantitative increase of a product in an enzymatic reaction due to psi, then I could have that increase trigger a delta switch and turn on an alarm or even a light. "Hmmm...," I said, to myself, "this should work," as I began to sketch out the idea on paper for a Psi-control switch. "Not only that," I mused, "but I should also be able to psychokinetically turn the switch on remotely from any distance and through any physical form of shielding or barriers." At last, the sketch was complete, and I sat back in my chair to ponder it and all it portended. Wow...! To the moon and beyond, I reflected for a moment, now that's an idea!

Others, however, did not see it that way. I knocked on many doors looking for funding to conduct the Psi-control Switch research, only to be shown an equal number of exits. "But don't you see the usefulness?" I would ask. Regarded as the ugly duckling of the research world, they shut their doors to me just as they shut their minds. One could almost hear their smug laughter and imitation "quack—quack—quack" behind those doors. The pond can be a lonely place when you are all by yourself.

Meanwhile, I applied for, and received, several interviews to medical schools. I had the notion that I could especially help others with this research as a physician. With that in mind, I went to one particular interview in the Midwest, hoping to be accepted to med school. Before me sat a distinguished panel of five physicians who asked myriad questions. They indicated they liked my academic background and my answers to their questions, implying my acceptance was imminent.

That is... until I committed academic suicide by going head to head with the portly, middle-aged woman physician at the center of the group. She obviously had a psychiatry background and asked, "Well, Dr. Teller," she addressed me by my formal title, "what is that you like to do when you want to do something special?"

"I like to meditate," I replied.

"No," she said, seeming somewhat annoyed by the answer. "I mean, what is it that you like to do when you want to do something different?"

"Well," I again replied, "I really do like to meditate...."

Now, with a scowl upon her face, she asked, "Don't you ever go out and kick up your heels, and get excited?"

I looked her straight in the eyes, not letting her belittle my meditational experiences saying, "No, ma'am. I think that excitement is pathological."

Needless to say, the interview spiraled downward from there, until I informed them that the only way that I would attend their school was if they funded my research.

"Research?" the physician at the center asked, as she looked around at the others. "We didn't know that you were doing any research. What is this about?"

"Let me explain," I began, as I presented my views on curing diseases using psychical research to affect aberrant enzymes. Halfway through my presentation, my eyes grew wide as I watched another woman physician slowly draw her hand up and tightly clutch a cross around her neck. The fear on her face was real. She stared at me as though the devil incarnate was sitting before her spewing out irreverent utterances about sacred things. Can it be in this day and age that this attitude still exists? I asked myself.

Finally, having had enough, I said to the panel, "At this point, I am now letting you know that you have failed your interview."

They sat there in total silence, bewildered, just looking at me.

Again, I said, "You have failed your interview."

After a brief moment, one of the male physicians raised his hand and asked in a sheepish manner, "Will you please explain what you just said?"

"Sure," I answered back. "This panel is interviewing me, but I am also interviewing this panel. I do not like the answers that I have heard, and I am letting you know that you failed your interview. As a social grace, you will not have to wait the requisite two weeks for your denial letter, because I am letting you know now—you failed."

The panel sat in stunned silence.

"Goodbye," I said, still watching the startled looks upon their faces as I got up and left.

Upon exiting, I thought to myself, Well, at least the positive outcome is that I won't have to tickle prostates for a living anytime soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN: RYAN MORAN

"Yes... under the snake."

How the hell does he do that? I asked myself, seeing Ryan Moran for the very first time.

There he was, in all his glory, grinning like the Cheshire cat and whooping it up as he bounced two attractive, young women up and down—one on each knee. The women laughed so hard, throwing their heads backward, that they almost fell off his lap. Then, barely collecting themselves, they whispered secrets into each others' ears, punctuated by girlish giggles, before erupting in laughter once more, as they vied for his attention.

Wow! was my next thought. Why can't I do that?

Momentarily, I studied Ryan Moran as they all laughed and carried on. We were young then, and his hair still had a light brown luster with a few curly locks on the sides. Between the laughs and smiles, I saw that his distinctive blue-gray eyes were wide and attentive. I sized him up as maybe being a decade older than me. Large of frame, with an equally large head, and a bulbous nose that sat upon fair skin, I guessed he was Irish. Wearing a white shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of worn cowboy boots, he looked as though he had just come in off the range.

I had stopped in to get a drink at Jitz's Tavern while running errands on my day off. With only a few small tables and a tiny stage, this was the type of place where an intrepid young man with a guitar and a new song would show up hoping to launch a career. It was a student bar that catered to the university crowd. This out-of-place yahoo was not someone I expected to see on that midsummer's day in Mapleton, New York.

Slowly swirling a straw in my drink, I took a sip, relishing the raucous sight before me. I was relaxed that day, but my mind snapped to attention when I noticed an enormous picture of a snake mounted on the wall behind Ryan Moran and the two jostling women. Curving in and out, this large, hand painted relief mural occupied most of the top portion of the wall. Its dark color contrasted sharply against the pale wall casting a surreal, undulating effect upon the boisterous scene before me. After a long day of running about in the July heat, it was quite a refreshing spectacle to stumble upon. What a sight to behold, I laughed to myself. Finally, after a fresh round of debauchery, he released his arms from around the women's waists as they ran off and left him sitting alone. I got up, approached his table, and asked, "Can I join you?"

He put his hand out and gestured for me to sit. I still remember the cautious look on his face behind that Cheshire-cat smile. I saw it many more times in the following decades, and now, I understand why it was there.

I extended my hand across the table, "My name's Ira."

He reached out, tight lipped and careful, and shook my hand introducing himself, "Ryan."

To break the ice, I asked, "How the hell did you do that?"

We both broke into full-throated laughter, as raucous as when he had been jostling the two women on his lap.

Then, Ryan leaned back in his chair, his face issuing a more genuine smile, and he said, modestly, "Oh... that was nothing."

"Well, other than bouncing women on your lap, what kind of work do you do in town?" I asked.

"I'm a small-business planner," he explained, pulling out his business card and handing it to me. I read out loud the large, bold letters at the top of the card that stated, "MALTA BUSINESS PLANNING AND DEVELOPMENT COMPANY." Then, silently, I read the smaller print underneath: "Ryan Moran, Senior Partner."

"Malta...?" I puzzled, to myself. "Malta...?" I repeated, quietly. Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Oh! I get it!" I exclaimed, with a smile. I had discerned its double meaning—a meaning known only to those who had read the book. "You want to buy eggs in Malta for seven cents each and sell them for five cents each, and still make a profit—right?"

Ryan nodded.

"That's like in Heller's Catch 22."

"Yes," he confirmed, chuckling at the insider joke regarding the craziness of war and business, "that's right." His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, as if assessing me. "Say... you're pretty smart," he noted.

"Nah," I said. "Someone once told me that I put my foot into so many buckets of shit that now I've just learned to take it out faster, and that makes me look smart."

Ryan laughed, as the analogy tickled his mind, and then, he leaned forward and asked, "What do you do?"

"Oh, I'm a pharmacist at Mapleton Community Hospital, but I'm still considering medical school," I replied, with some pep in my voice.

"Medical school?" He looked at me inquisitively. "Why do you want to go to medical school?"

"To help people," I responded, perhaps sounding too glib.

His blue-gray eyes stared directly at me beneath arched eyebrows. "What makes you think that you have to go to medical school in order to help people?" he challenged.

I was at a loss for words as he held me in his gaze.

Then, with a smug "Huh...," and a knowing nod of his head, he smiled as if to emphasize the point, as if to seal it in my mind. He slowly stood up; still looking into my eyes, then began to turn away.

I felt stunned and dazed, as though something had hit me—I could not immediately process the revealing simplicity of his words. His words went beyond sheer logic as they challenged the rote social dogma that one must become a physician in order to help others. Ryan's words challenged my mental status quo. It felt as though some form of mental dart had been thrown deep into my psyche and could not be dislodged. Still not being able to answer, I caught his attention with an upward nod of my head, toward the painting of the snake behind him.

Ryan turned to look at it, and then he turned back to me and said, "I guess we met under the snake."

"Yes," I said, finally finding some words, "under the snake."

Then, Ryan Moran turned and walked out the door.

What makes you think that you have to go to medical school to in order to help people? Ryan's words had been short and simple, yet there was something about the way that he had asked me the question that made it stick in my mind. Anyone could have asked me that same question, but Ryan's words had a weight and momentum to them that left an indelible mark. The Japanese have the word Umami that refers to a fifth taste, a meaty form of savoriness. Likewise, Ryan's question had an uncanny texture to it that I had not experienced before.

Since meeting Ryan Moran, I became curious to know who he was. I sensed a power and clarity to his mind unlike the common fare one usually encounters. Little did I know I had met a master of his craft.

Why we met on that day, I do not know. Perhaps it was some great synchronous event, or maybe it was just happenstance. Then again, maybe it was due to the alignment of our stars, as vaguely predicted by a forgotten county-fair palm reader long ago, in my distant past. Whichever it was, it did not matter. The snake had sealed our fate together and forever changed our lives, forging an indelible bond between us. In the East, the snake is a symbol of the uncoiling spiritual energy at the base of the spine, and in the West it is a symbol of the temptation to eat the forbidden fruit of knowledge—somewhere intermingled within these two existed the truth. Later, in hard times, we would laugh together reminding each other, "Well, we did meet under the snake."

I went about my usual business of working, studying, and tinkering with my Psi-control Switch idea, but I always kept an eye out for Ryan. Anytime I went to the downtown area, I would check the bars looking for him. One evening, several weeks later, my perseverance paid off. I had a sketch of the Psi-control device in a leather briefcase, hoping to show it to a friend of mine who usually frequented an upscale bar named La Champagne. I didn't see my friend inside the bar, so I stepped outside to a back porch area and discovered Ryan sitting at some tables with a group of other men.

The men were his age or older, and he acknowledged me with a nod of his head.

I approached the table and asked if I could join them. One of the older men said, "Sure." So, I pulled up a chair and quietly listened, sitting across from Ryan. I quickly ascertained that the others present were professors from the university's School of Psychology. They were discussing the politics of the department, bantering about various names, and occasionally laughing. I was introduced by one of them to a man who sat between Ryan and me, and was told that he had just turned forty that day. His friends teased him, calling him a dinosaur. He took a sip from his drink and, with sad eyes, merely nodded his head in my direction. Obviously, he was not taking the news of his birthday very well. Because they were each a good decade older than me, and because I did not really know them or the context of their conversation, I sat back in my chair and relaxed.

Soon, growing oblivious to their bantering and laughing, I entered a meditative state with my eyes open—something that I could now do relatively easily. This is when something very odd occurred. I felt the light inside my heart being drawn into the heart space of the sad man who was lamenting his fortieth birthday. This was certainly unusual, and it seemed unearthly as the dark space within his heart pulled the light from me. Although, by now, I'd had many experiences regarding meditational light, I had never had this one before—not one of having the light drawn from my heart and into another's heart. My consciousness was merging inside someone else's body, as strange as it may seem. I relaxed back into the chair and let the flow of light take place. The more the light went into him, the more I noticed that his mood changed. Soon, he was smiling and jovially reentered the conversation. Then, he started to laugh out loud as the light flooded in, and I could feel his joy. Surprisingly, he suddenly rose from the table and, with a smile still on his face, announced that it was time for him to leave. The others soon followed, paying their tabs and leaving Ryan and me sitting alone.

"Howdy! What's in the briefcase"? Ryan asked, with an inquisitive smile.

"It's a plan for a Psi-control Switch," I said, coming out of my meditative state. "It's a switch that you can turn on mentally, you know... just by thinking about it."

"Oh," he said, now with a bit of a sour expression.

"I'll show it to you if you like," I suggested, eager to explain it to anyone who would listen.

"Okay," he replied, rather disinterestedly, "but let's go sit at the bar."

We walked inside La Champagne's and I noticed that Ryan was wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots again. His clothes seemed out of place at this upscale establishment of slacks and ties. For a moment, I had my doubts that this bimbo-jostling cowboy could appreciate the complexity of my work; I was hoping for a more nuanced and intellectual conversation regarding my project. Discussions of the stock market were more my style rather than discussions of live stock. His looks were deceiving, because, by all outward appearances, he seemed to be a rancher who strayed into town by mistake, but this was really just a projection of my own limited mind, as I would later realize. His usual greeting of howdy and his cowboy boots symbolized his inner feelings of strength and rugged individualism, and had little to do with his level of sophistication.

We sat on bar stools in front of a large mirror with brass trim flanked on both sides by liquor bottles. Ryan asked the barkeep for a large iced tea, and I ordered a Coke. Then, Ryan pulled out a pack of Pall Mall Reds from his top shirt pocket, put a cigarette to his lips, and lit it. With a long drag and squinting of his eyes, he exhaled and blew the smoke audibly towards the mirror in front of us.

Turning toward me, he asked, "So, you have this switch?"

"Yes," I said, fumbling to open the briefcase.

I pulled the document that I wanted out of the briefcase and placed it on top of the bar. Showing Ryan the diagram of the device, and flipping through various pages of the document, I began to explain inner workings of the Psi-control Switch. At various points he would say, "What do you mean?" or "How do you know?" prodding me to explain the switch in even greater detail. The more I talked, the more he smoked, until he turned toward the mirror again and with an extra loud, audible exhale he blew the smoke toward it. The gesture seemed to punctuate the end of his cross-examination. Without turning back to look at me, he said, dryly, "So what?"

"So what?!" I responded, in an agitated voice. "Don't you understand what this means?"

He ignored me and continued to stare into the mirror for what seemed like an eternity. I was on the edge of my bar stool... waiting for some cogent reply.

Finally, he turned back toward me and stated, in a very matter-of-fact manner, "I don't think it will work, but I can do the switch project for you."

"You can?" I asked, with surprise.

"Yes," he replied.

I thought about it for a bit, feeling very skeptical, and then I offered, "If that is true, then I will pay you whatever it takes to get the project done—as long as there is a payout for me at the end."

"Are you sure?" he asked, with a squint of his eyes and a hard straight face, as if to seal the deal.

"Yes, I'm sure," I answered.

He nodded his head a few times as a final confirmation, took a last puff, and extinguished the cigarette roughly in an ashtray as though to dismiss the issue.

"Look," he said, while standing up and pulling up his jeans, "I've got to catch a bus in the morning to Quinndale."

"Quinndale?!" I was caught off guard. "What the hell is in Quinndale?" I asked, anticipating that my chance to do the project was about to slip away.

"I want to look at some apple and pear orchards," he replied, coolly. Then, with a pause and a grimace, he added, "Besides, it's time to leave this little burg of a town."

As he turned to leave, I said, "Look, can you at least witness this document? I need to have that done before I bring it to a patent attorney."

He stared at me somewhat incredulously, and with a look of annoyance upon his face, he picked up a pen from the bar and signed his name to the bottom. Turning toward me again, he said, as though he already knew the outcome, "Good luck with that attorney." With that, Ryan Moran walked out the door, cowboy boots and all.

I thought that would be the last time that I would ever see him, not realizing that our lives had already become irrevocably entangled.

"That sure is one different cowboy," I said, to myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE DEVICE

"You see, all we have to do— "

I would venture to guess that I was not the first to have an idea such as the Psi-control Switch. Surely, in the great vat of time, the concept was fermenting and bubbling through the minds of men merely waiting to be uncorked. With a "pop!" I poured that sparkling idea out and let it bubble across my mind. Mmm! Tasty, I thought, as I swirled it about my psychic palate. It was intoxicating, a vintage boon for all mankind. But still, I had to bottle it up and sell the idea to others.

I remembered that Jay D. Abrams was a man of business, when I first decided to pay him a visit. Why I particularly chose him as a potential patent attorney, I do not recall. Looking around his office, I did not see much except for a large table, some oversized chairs, filing cabinets, and the customary law degree hanging on the wall behind his desk. Sterile and clean, just the way I like my law, I thought, as I entered his office. My hope in meeting with Jay D. Abrams was that I would be more likely to get some corporate, government, or even private funding if I had a substantial level of legal legitimacy and protection. He was about fifteen years my elder, and after exchanging the usual social pleasantries, I got down to the business of explaining the sketch for an enzymatic switch.

"Jay, you and I both know that we can speed up a chemical reaction by using an enzyme as a catalyst."

"That's right," he said.

"So, here in this diagram, in this generalized example, I have chemical reactant 'A' and chemical reactant 'B' being bonded together by an enzyme to produce a new chemical compound 'A-B.'"

"Uh-huh," Jay followed along.

I continued to explain the diagram on the paper before us, "And we also know that we can measure the increased rate at which this new chemical 'A-B' is being formed by this enzymatic catalyst, correct?"

"Yes," Jay responded, matter-of-factly.

I continued, "Then we can have this increase in product 'A-B' perform work by using a delta switch to, say, turn on a light, or do whatever." I pointed this out to him on the diagram.

"Sure, sure, that will work," he agreed, following along.

"Now, what I want to do that is different, is to use psi, an aspect of parapsychology to make the enzymatic catalyst work even faster. You know, a psychokinetic mind-over-matter catalyst enhancer to increase the product 'A-B' and switch on the light sooner."

I watched as his eyes blinked several times in rapid succession.

"You see, all we have to do—"

"Whoa! Whoa!" Jay interrupted abruptly. "I can't present to the patent office a psychic catalyst enhancer to secure a patent for you!"

"Why not?" I asked, showing my naiveté.

"This is crazy! Besides, there's no precedent for this psychic catalyst, that's why. What's this psychic psi energy anyway?" he asked, with a furrowed brow.

"Well," I started in, "it's not really an energy like you're used to. It doesn't fall off with the inverse square law, and you can't shield it to stop it. Think of it as the operative entity behind ESP and psycho kinesis."

He stared at my document with perplexed confusion, and then looked back at me with an equally puzzled expression. Finally, leaning back into his chair, he said, "Listen, I don't want to take your money for this."

Crestfallen, yet determined, I frowned and simply continued to stare at him.

Suddenly, he sprang up from his chair, briskly walked over to the file cabinet, and pulled open the top drawer. "This is what I do," he said, as he pulled out some of the files and began to read off the titles of his most recent projects. He rambled on, uttering the words "electromagnetic," "power conversion," "mechanical transducer," and the like. Then, he spread the files fanlike out in front of me across his desk. I picked one up and thumbed through its contents, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

Looking at him across the file-strewn desk, I said, "Yes, I know... but this is different."

"I still can't do it," he insisted, as he scooped up the files and started to place them back into the file cabinet.

With his back toward me, I suggested, "If I make a working model, would that help?" I saw his spine stiffen as though this was some sort of incongruous statement that defied the laws of reason.

Closing the file drawer, he returned to his desk chair and asked, "A working model? Ah... sure... sure. It's your money."

With that, Patent Pending Application Serial Number: A-887226 was filed on 02-01-1981. Luckily, lady justice is blindfolded. Her role is to balance the legal scale to ensure that justice is meted out fairly. Had she looked that day, she would have blushed, seeing another hand—that of a dogmatic Newtonian thought process—had already tipped the legal scale against me.

The trip back to Mapleton was mentally arduous. I considered the enormous costs and effort necessary to make a working model of the Psi-control Switch based upon an enzymatic reaction. That is when I thought of using temperature, instead, to make the device much simpler. If I could change the temperature of a sensitive thermometer mentally from its baseline temperature, then I could implement that change to accomplish work, such as turning on a light.

With that hot idea—no pun intended—fresh in my mind, I drove directly across town to see my scientific-minded friend, Julio.

The night before my visit to the patent attorney, I had already told Julio about my idea to use an enzyme to create a Psi-control Switch. It was my hope that he would be more receptive to helping me now that I had a more manageable experiment involving temperature gradients. Julio was a bit of a prodigy—educated in biology, chemistry, and physics—and was enrolled in a masters program at the local university. We were of a similar age, and whereas Julio voluntarily served in Vietnam before college, I was fortunate enough to have missed that call to duty. During a national lottery to choose which men of my age were to be sent to war, I received a high number and was automatically excluded from the draft. Aside from chasing after women together, we were drinking buddies, and when drunk, he would tell me his war stories. Tales about his friends in the CIA and their involvement with the Hmong, an Asian ethnic group from the mountainous regions of Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand fascinated me. He had witnessed many savage and cruel situations. I would listen intently, always wondering how I would have fared had I been forced to go. Julio was indeed not only exceptionally bright, but he was also amazingly tough.

I knocked on his door and greeted him with a smile, "Hey, sweet cheeks."

"Hey, sugar buns, how ya doing?" he replied.

As I entered his living room, I noticed that he held a football helmet under his arm which struck me as odd. "Say, Julio, what's the helmet for?"

He returned a sly smile. "You'll see," he hinted, as he placed the helmet on his head and started to adjust the chin straps.

"Julio, I need you to do something for me," I began."What?" he asked casually, as he struggled with the strap.

"I want you to run an experiment for me. You know, like the one that I told you about the other night. But instead of using an enzyme, I need the experiment done using temperature."

"Oh," he replied, with a deadpan expression. He was most likely recalling my unusual idea and had hoped it would have vanished by now. "Let me finish this first," he said, as he went to his couch and from underneath it pulled out a set of nunchaku sticks. Upon seeing the two solid sticks of wood that were connected at their ends by a foot-long piece of chain, I remembered that he was a highly ranked fighter in Tae Kwon Do.

He struck a pose in the center of the living room and remained motionless with one piece of the apparatus tucked under one arm and the other piece of it held in his free hand. Slowly, he started a ritualized martial art routine, throwing one wooden stick outward from his body and then quickly drawing it back into a new position only to thrust it outward again. He began to pick up speed as he repeated these movements in quick succession. Soon, he was whirling the device about his head until it whizzed like a buzz saw. Then, with a flip of his wrist, it snapped out again to hit the imaginary enemy. I was amazed by the precision and quickness of his moves. Now it was obvious why he wore the helmet. After several minutes of these amazing movements, with a thump of the wooden sticks against his body, he resumed the position from which he started ending the display.

s"Wow!" I exclaimed, as he took off the helmet. "That was fantastic!"

"Yeah," he replied, somewhat out of breath. "I have to keep up with my weapons training to keep my Black Belt," he explained. Then, with a grin, he said "For you, Ira, I will do it. I'll run the experiment."

"You will?!" I was elated!

"Yeah, but I'm letting you know now that it won't work," Julio warned.

"All right!" I shouted, and hugged him like a brother. I was ecstatic!

The first documented psychic accounts of any kind that I knew of dated back to the Mahabharata, an ancient Indian text with literary elements originating in 400 BCE. This epic Sanskrit poem described how warring armies hurled psychic balls of fire at each other. Imagine that, I chuckled to myself; it only took a couple thousand plus years for mankind just to flip on a psychic switch.
CHAPTER NINE: MAUREEN

"Holy Cow! What was that all about?"

I entered the dark Intravenous Preparations room that adjoined the hospital pharmacy and stood still for a few moments to savor the pulsing light around me. Blue-white light rippled from my body with a vibrating shimmer, diffusing throughout the room. As if emanating from a great pump set in motion, the light flowed with my every breath. In and out, I could feel it surge from within my heart.

No, this heart—the subtle heart—is not like the physical heart. A spiritual aspirant can actually walk about in this sacred space of the subtle heart as I have done, roaming its vast corridors. A lofty place, it is cavernous and filled with a white mist that clings to your feet like a fog as you walk about. One is at first awed by the seemingly endless expanse of this inner temple, with its many-faceted, vaulted ceilings. Astonishment overtakes the mind upon finding great light forms at its epicenter. Though crystalline, solid, and triangular shaped, these glowing light towers are also made of light—light emanating from light. Wider at the bottom and tapering toward the top, they ascend above you, extending upward twenty feet or more. Not all are vertical, as the mind neatly wants, as some go off at unusual tangents. Like a giant, crystal garden, the light-form is comprised of red, blue, green, and yellow hues packed within a clear outer shell. This luminescent inner cathedral is a great self-sustaining apparatus that moves the light within the body to every cell and beyond. It is as sublime as it is intricate in its architectural design. Pure and unblemished, this is the inner heart of the physical heart—the inner heart of the soul. This is who you are.

I flipped on the room light, and the shimmering merged with the electric light, seeming to disappear. Before me was the laminar flow hood, a carefully enclosed, sterile lab bench that functioned by blowing HEPA-filtered air in a laminar flow toward the user so that airborne contaminants such as bacteria were trapped by the filter and did not contaminate our intravenous solutions as we added electrolytes or antibiotics. It was a sterile, gray environment made even more drab by the gray color of the hood. I turned on the light switch to the hood and began to work. Dry work... like toast without butter or jam, I thought to myself. With a bit of a sigh, I chose the appropriate solutions in the larger bags and attached the patients' labels. Then, with a syringe in one hand and a vial in the other, I added the allotted amount of electrolyte as prescribed. One solution bag after another, this humdrum task went on seemingly forever.

My technician, Dan, arrived, and without a word, he joined me in the work. Thin, handsome, and perhaps a few years younger than me, his relaxed manner made him easy to work around. He prepared smaller bags with antibiotics that I would later check for accuracy. Having done this many times together, we were soon lost in our thoughts and the monotony of the work.

Probably an hour or more went by when Dan grumbled in a low voice, "Stop it."

"Stop what?" I asked, glancing in his direction.

He didn't respond or look up from his work as he proceeded to stack the bags, one after another. I went back to my work, repeating the process in front of me.

"Stop it!" Dan said, again, a short time later, as though he was annoyed.

"Stop what?" I asked, looking at him incredulously for some clue to this uncharacteristic, out-of-left-field remark.

He looked at me quizzically, in an uneasy fashion. "I don't know," he said, meekly. With a few blinks of his eyes, he added, "I just want you to stop it."

We both stared at each other in disbelief. It was an uncomfortable moment and I did not know what he was talking about.

"I'm going to get the orders," I finally told him, hoping to relieve the tension. Then I turned and left the room.

It felt good to be out of the stifling confinement of the pharmacy environment. I was making my rounds, walking down the hallways to the different wings of the hospital to pick up the new physician orders. This was my favorite part of the job—socializing with my friends. It made me happy. Perhaps I would get to flirt with one of the nurses, or someone would tell a dirty joke. Maybe there was a birthday party in the lab or a potluck down at X-ray. This was certainly more fun than filling bags under the hood. I felt alive, as though the hospital was my personal playground.

It was on this day, while making my rounds, that I first met Maureen. She was walking down the hallway in the opposite direction, wearing a white coat and a stethoscope draped around her neck. Her light brown hair caught my eye.

"Hi, what's your name?" I asked, as we both stopped in the hall to chat.

"Maureen," she answered, with a smile.

"I'm Ira," I smiled back. "I work in the pharmacy." I couldn't help but notice her warm eyes, an intriguing blend of green and gray. "Are you busy?" I asked.

"Kind of, right now," she said.

"Well, I'm going to take my break at seven tonight, in the cafeteria... Would you care to join me?"

"Okay," she answered easily, an upbeat lilt to her voice conveying that she was interested.

"Great, I'll see you then."

We both smiled and broke off to go our separate ways.

I completed my rounds and returned to the pharmacy's Intravenous Preparations room to find Dan still working under the hood. I joined him and started to check the work he had just finished. "I just met someone really nice in the hallway," I said, pulling a stool up to the hood to sit down.

"Oh?" he replied. "What's her name?"

"Maureen," I said.

"Maureen," he echoed, trying to place the name. "I don't think I know her," he concluded.

"Neither do I," I said, "but I'm hoping to get to know her".

We were both caught up in the flow of the work when he turned to me and said, yet again, "Will you please stop it?"

I turned to him, feeling somewhat annoyed. "What do you mean, 'Stop it.' Stop what?! "

With a puzzled contortion on his face he hesitated, and then ventured, in a sheepish voice, "It's like... there's something... some energy... coming out of you."

"Huh?" I replied. Then it dawned on me what was happening—Dan was sensing the light that had seemed to be flowing out of me. I let out an amused laugh and said, "You know, Dan, you really need to learn how to meditate."

"Really?" he replied.

"Yes, really," I said, emphatically.

A few days later, after I taught Dan how to meditate, there was a little more light under the hood.

A short time later, at nearly seven o'clock, I sat and waited for Maureen at one of the back tables in the cafeteria where we could be alone. As I waited, I reflected on how I had recently returned from living in an ashram in upstate New York while on personal leave from the hospital pharmacy. At the ashram, I had been a celibate—not in the way that most people think of celibacy, as rote abstinence, but in a more transcendent way of being above it all, physically and mentally. How strange it is to be hit upon by the sexual energy of anyone when one is celibate. Like a grand insider joke that only I knew and the other person did not, I would laugh to myself at their attempts to attract me. It was amusing to watch this biological dance. It tickled my mind to see the showy display while being detached and immune from it all.

Tonight, however, with Maureen's sexual energy added to the mix, it would be different. My monk-like celibate immunity was beginning to fade.

Maureen arrived at nearly seven and sat down with a smile, asking, "How are you?"

"Fine," I said. "Can I get you something?"

"No, thanks. I only have a few minutes before I have to be back at work," she informed me.

"Oh," I said, feeling somewhat unnerved by the time constraint. "What department do you work in?"

"Respiratory," she replied, pointing to a small badge on her coat sleeve.

"Hey, that's great." I perked up. "That's just down the hall from the pharmacy."

Then, as if a flood gate had opened, I looked deep into her eyes and said, even to my surprise, "You know, I would really like to make love to you tonight."

We were both caught off guard. Her gray-green eyes searched mine before she glanced down for just a moment. Looking back up at me and smiling, she responded, "Well... ah... okay."

"Really?!" I asked, in utter disbelief.

"Uh huh," she nodded, still smiling.

"Wow! That's great!"

"What time do you get off work?" I asked.

"Nine tonight," she replied.

"Hmmm..." I ventured, hoping that this wouldn't ruin the moment, or my chances, "I don't get off until midnight."

"That's okay. Here's my address," she said, as she wrote it down on a piece of paper and placed it into my hand. "I'll leave the front door open. Take the stairs to the second floor, and I'll be in the room to the left because my children will be sleeping in the other room."

Still smiling, she got up and left as I sat there thinking to myself,

Holy Cow! What was that all about?

At about half past midnight, I pulled up in front of Maureen's condominium. As I approached the front door, I half wondered if she would really be waiting up for me, or if she had changed her mind. Turning the knob, I found the door was unlocked, so I went in and found the stairs. At the top of the stairs, I noticed the door on the left was slightly ajar. I gave it a light knock and entered the room, closing the door behind me. The bedroom was dark, with only a dim bit of light entering through the bedroom window. The window provided just enough light for me to see Maureen sit up on the bed and pull the sheets about her.

"Hi," she whispered, in a soft voice.

"Hi," I replied, quietly, as my eyes began to adjust to the dim light. "How are you?"

Suddenly, before she could respond, a strong bolt of spiritual light entered the room from above me, rushed down my spine, and nearly pushed me to my knees. I did not have time to react as my eyes rolled back into their sockets, and I swallowed my tongue. I could not see anything in front of me with my eyes rolled back, but I could hear Maureen screaming over and over, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! What are you doing?! Oh, God! What are you doing?!" The event did not last long, and when I came out of it, I saw her sitting up trembling with a look of abject fear upon her face.

Deeply concerned for upsetting her, I went over to her and sat on the edge of the bed. "It's okay," I told her, as I gently stroked her trembling head.

"What was that? What on earth happened to you?!" she asked, still trembling.

Before answering, I continued to stroke her head until she calmed down a bit.

"What did you see?" I asked.

Maureen hesitated for a moment, and then she blurted out, "I saw all this light! And...and it came from your stomach. It was so bright; I could see everything in the room!" Her eyes were wide with fright, and she started to shake again.

"It's okay. It's okay," I said, over and over, my arm fast around her to calm her down. Lying down on the bed next to her, I held her close until she began to relax. We lay there together for some time in the quiet darkness, her trembling subsiding and her breathing growing more calm, when I ventured to give her a warm, tender kiss. Maureen responded in kind. Kisses and caresses quickly escalated until, soon, we were in the joyous throws of an ecstatic, passionate sex embrace... when—to my complete and utter surprise—I heard her sobbing.

I looked at Maureen in the dim room light and saw tears streaming from her warm gray-green eyes. "Are you okay?" I asked, with concern.

"Yes!" she nodded, smiling through her tears. "I feel wonderful!"

It was then that I realized my spiritual light had entered into her, and she was having a spiritual awakening. The descent of grace and the receivership of this wondrous light under any circumstance is a truly amazing gift—to share Maureen's awakening with her, at this particular moment, was an experience beyond anything I could have ever anticipated.
CHAPTER TEN: MERGING

"Come on in! It's great!"

Slowly, over the following months, Maureen and I began to genuinely bond as we spent more time together. She started to meditate and initiated other spiritual practices, beginning her godly ascent at a breathtaking rate. What a joy it was to share these experiences and practices with her as she unfolded her inner divinity. At work, we would meet for breaks, and after sharing our worldly experiences, we would slip away to the small hospital chapel for prayer and meditation. Long walks in the parks, lunches together, and sharing a spiritual community of like-minded people started to bring us closer. Over time, I could see the transformation upon her face as it became more relaxed and doe-eyed, giving her a particular look of contentment.

I, however, was a different story. Although I had the spiritual component, I did not have the moral foundation on which to build and nurture it. I had my own agendas. Past travels had not taken me down the road of morality. Or, if they did, I would tend to ignore it, brushing it aside. Little did I realize that although I was "heavenly bound" and imbued with spiritual light, I was no earthly good in other respects. This was how my first serious relationship—my relationship with Maureen—developed, by finding out that I would not be able to hold onto the spiritual light, let alone Maureen, if I did not build more of an earthly foundation. I had to take a hard look at myself, examine my worldly flaws and character defects (of which there were many). Next, I would have to do the hard work necessary to rebuild a moral and ethical base, and a new way of being. It was time for me to grow up, to realize that the world was not just about me. Maureen's help would prove to be instrumental, a catalyst in my transformation.

Some of the women I knew before Maureen were more like feral cats compared to her domestication. Others were intelligent and sophisticated, yet I would not step into their snares of commitment and relationships. At this point in my life, I was still like a tomcat perusing the back alleys. When luck would have it, some mom cat with kittens would put out a bowl of cream to lure me in to spend the night. But at first light, I was always gone.

Maureen had her work cut out for her. She had some sculpting to do with me, and initially it was difficult. Once, a few weeks after our first meeting, I slept with another woman who was in our prayer and meditation group. After seeing the two of us together at the next group session, Maureen intuitively sensed I had done more than just talk with the woman, and she asked me if this was true. I was honest with her and told her yes. Although I had not made any commitments to Maureen, I could see the raw, emotional pain upon her face. It hurt me to see her so troubled, and I soon came to realize that most of what comprised a relationship was unseen or even unspoken. I made my amends to her—in both actions and heartfelt words—and was able to make whole again what was nearly lost. I promised myself that I would never do something like that again. This became a turning point for me, an epiphany if you will. And so, we grew back and forth in a seesaw fashion—she becoming more established in the light, and I becoming more grounded and committed to her. Soon, I was staying the night, and eventually, I was lingering until the next morning.

Maureen had two young children whom I came to love and adore. As we talked in bed, I began to learn more about her past and the pain of her divorce. I watched as the aftermath of the divorce continued to play out in what I referred to as the "cold war." A car would pull up outside her front door on the weekends. He would step out and wait. The children would be dressed and ready, and Maureen would gently place her hands upon their backs in emotional support as she escorted them down to the end of the walkway, a virtual no-man's-land. The sidewalk served as a line in the sand where she would go no further and he would not cross. After exchanging some forced pleasantries, she would release the two children to the other side. Standing at the curb and waving their final goodbyes, they would be seated in the car by their father and whisked away for their allotted time. When we were alone, Maureen would tell me of the love, hope, and aspirations that she had for her children; whereupon, I would caress her cheek to help the pain go away. To cheer her, I would tell her a funny story or something silly to make her laugh. With a kiss and a caress, we would spend time together, idling the hours away.

It was a few weeks after first meeting Maureen, on a sunny summer morning, when I noticed Ryan standing in front of the local book store. I pulled my car up to the curb and shouted, "Ryan! Hey, Ryan!"

He strolled over to the passenger side of the car, leaned over, and said through the open window, "Howdy."

"How you doing?" I asked.

"Arrh—," he grumbled. "Not that good... I don't feel that well."

That is when I noticed that his face was puffy with an oily sheen to it and the top of his shirt was stained brown.

"Oh," I said, in a somber tone. And then, with a little more perk, I offered, "Say, I'm going over to Rose Park. Do you wanna go?"

"I don't know," he said, in a rather lackluster fashion.

"Come on," I encouraged, to cheer him up. "It's nice over there."

"Well, okay," he said, and got into the front seat of the car.

I drove the short distance to the park while we chatted. Our conversation was a bit strained, and I could tell that he was not feeling well. After a pause, I asked, "I thought that you went to live in Quinndale."

"I did, but things didn't work out," he replied. "I took the bus to come back here a few days ago."

"Oh," I said, in a knowing way. It was obvious that he had run into some problems.

"Yeah—," he continued, "I left my things here in some boxes at this guy's garage. I went there yesterday to get them, but he said he threw them out because he didn't think I was coming back."

"Christ!" I responded. "That's not right."

"Yeah—," he growled. "He threw out some books and personal letters of mine. That's what really pisses me off the most."

"That idiot," I responded, as we reached the park entrance.

We walked to the swimming area where a stream was dammed up in the summertime to make a large, fresh water pool. It was a beautiful section of the park and one of my favorites. On warm summer nights, I used to go there with a girlfriend to skinny-dip, and float under the stars and the moon. Magical and enchanting, the water had a way of bringing people together.

Ryan pulled out a cigarette and started smoking next to a large shade tree that stood at the water's edge. I looked around, and not seeing many people around, I stripped off my clothes and dove in. How refreshing it was. Rising to the surface, I began to swim about, enjoying this morning's simple pleasure. Then my attention came back to Ryan. He just stood there, leaning against the tree, taking another long drag on his cigarette.

"Come on in!" I called out to him, as I splashed about, "It's great!"

"Nah," he said, with a sour voice, "I don't feel that good."

"If you come in, it will make you feel better," I suggested, approaching the edge of the pool.

Ryan sauntered down the slope of lawn to the pool's edge. "Look," he said, "you don't understand."

"Understand what?" I asked, looking up at him. His cigarette was finished, and his hands were stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans. With his shoulders slumped down and hunched slightly forward, he looked at me and said, "I'm an alcoholic."

"Oh—," I said, taking a while to digest the news. Finally, I asked, "Do you have someplace to stay?"

"Maybe... I'm not sure," he replied.

"You can stay at my place for a while," I invited. "It's very small, but I can make some room."

"You sure?" he asked, quietly, without the self-assurance and bravado that he had displayed on previous occasions.

"Sure, I'm sure," I said, as I hopped out of the pool. I dried off as best I could, put my clothes back on, and then we walked back to the car.

I lived in a converted garage attached to a house on Sunview Avenue. With a bed, one closet, and a phone-booth of a bathroom, it was small but livable. For some reason the builders added a much smaller room at the other end of the garage with a door separating the two areas. I explained the layout to Ryan as I drove.

"Can I smoke in the car?" he asked.

"Yes, that's okay," I answered.

He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew the smoke out through the open window. "I don't need much," he said, "just one meal a day, a pack of cigarettes and a roof over my head."

"Okay," I replied.

We got to the house, and I showed him the room. I was worried that his frame was too tall for the small mattress on the floor that, nonetheless, seemed to fill up the entire space. I gave him my extra pillow and found a light blanket in case it got cold at night. He took off his clothes down to his shorts.

Finally, lying down on the tiny mattress, he said, "Thanks, Ira," and began to doze off.

Later that afternoon, before going to work, I knocked on the door and found him sound asleep. I pulled out a twenty dollar bill and placed it underneath his wallet on the windowsill. Quietly, I closed the door and went to work.

I did not know it at that time, but that one act of kindness would later reverberate throughout the halls of power at the top of the world for years to come. Months later, Ryan let me read a handwritten letter that a woman, Erika, had sent to him long before we met. Erika was Ryan's past lover, and she now ran his corporations—and so, the world. He had kept the letter in his wallet so that it would not get lost. In it, she wrote about his need to recover from alcoholism. Knowing his life experience, she wrote that he would have to learn to trust again—and that someone whom he could trust would indeed come into his life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: SOMETHING MOST PECULIAR

"Well...., we must have different data bases, mustn't we?"

You can learn a lot about a person by living with them. Initially, Ryan did not seem much different from anyone you might meet during the course of a normal day. He put his pants on one leg at a time and shaved daily while looking in the mirror. Furthermore, he was neat, clean, courteous, and very grateful for his tiny room. Quite often, Ryan expressed to me how free he felt in this small space, without having a lot of responsibilities. The weight of the world was now off his shoulders. His revelation to me that he was an alcoholic caused no problems. He went to his Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on a regular basis, taking great interest in them. There was very little out of the ordinary.

Perhaps the only thing that really stood out as being different was the time it took Ryan to get up in the mornings. Whereas I woke up, jumped into the shower, and was on my way, he had a different ritual. Upon waking he would smoke a cigarette while mixing a large pitcher of instant iced tea. Sitting back down on the mattress, he would then slowly drink the tea while gazing out into space. Sometimes, this would go on for hours on end. I would not disturb him while going about my own business—having my morning shower, dressing for work, eating breakfast, and sometimes sitting in meditation. Eventually his stomach would distend over his shorts from all the tea. Finally, as if something had ended and a master switch had been thrown, he would get up to start his day. Clarity would come back into his eyes.

I had a half-sized refrigerator in my room and kept a small grill on its top. For lunch, I would make Ryan some grilled vegetarian delights. Initially, he ate this just as a social grace, not wanting to hurt my feelings. I soon learned that his gastronomic senses leaned more toward a traditional, meaty fare. No culinary gravitas here—just plain and simple. I began to stock these types of nonvegetarian items realizing he would be happier and feel more at home.

Even though our gastronomic tastes differed, we grew to share similar goals and pleasures in life. Ryan was determined to quit smoking, and I was resolved to lose weight. We endlessly teased each other on these matters. Although we would place bets on our outcomes, neither side ever won. Stalemate was the rule for the day; our afflictions remained. Ryan puffing his cigarette, and me stopping for culinary treats, we were soon out and about, walking around town together. On most occasions he wore his cowboy attire, but sometimes he would slip into something more casual—shorts, sneakers, and a pullover being his style. We would hang out together browsing at the bookstore and getting an ice cream afterwards. Our favorite spot was still La Champagne bar. With its dark wood floors, green ferns, and gold trim, it was stylish, light and airy, and attracted a well-heeled clientele. Due to his age, Ryan, now in his late thirties, ran with an older crowd of professionals. My friends were younger twenty-somethings, and they were more of a "mellow earth" variety. Soon, we became known for palling around together, so much so that, sometimes, when our two crowds would intermingle, people would ask, "Where's your partner?" "Brothers," "twins," "partners"—however people would note it, there was this inextricable bond that had formed between us.

Over time, I came to learn that Ryan was known around town as a drunk, and a particularly nasty one at that. I was told to be careful of him by those who had witnessed his inebriated state. They gave testimony to his anger and ill-natured belligerence when he was "on the sauce," saying, "It's the curse of the Irish." Although I had never seen him drink alcohol, others told me privately that they knew him well and to watch out for him. At times, particularly with a cigarette in his mouth, he could be quite loquacious, talking about almost anything. People would cluster in a small circle about him, fascinated by his tales. Ryan's stories about flying for the airlines, military adventures, and foreign business deals were all mixed with the right amount of hubris and suspense to hold their attention. Jobless, homeless, and without a car, his talk on such a grand scale seemed out of place. Mapleton was just a little town, and eyebrows were raised. Even Ryan's AA friends told me they were wary and suspicious. If someone were to raise an objection to one of his stories, he would merely look them in the eyes and deflect the issue by saying, "Well..., we must have different data bases, mustn't we?" And then, he would continue on. With caution as my guide, I kept an eye out for trouble.

I had told Maureen about Ryan from the beginning. I described how he had now come back from Quinndale and needed a place to stay while he recovered from his drinking. She was supportive of this, especially since I would be spending more time at her house. Do not misunderstand—things were not always smooth with Ryan, and there were many rough spots along the way.

One of these rough spots occurred early on. Maureen had thrown a pot luck party at her house for some of her friends and staff in the respiratory department. I asked if I could bring Ryan along to introduce him to her at the party. She said that would be fine. Ryan, however, did not fit in well, especially not with this much younger crowd. I left him to talk with Maureen for a while as I mingled with the others. Maureen caught up with me a little while later and pulled me aside. She told me very directly, not mincing words, that Ryan had just "hit on her" and that she did not appreciate it. I could tell by the stern yet violated look in her eyes that this was true, and she was quite upset. I assured her that I would speak to him later that night. Lust is the devil's foreplay, particularly when it comes to another man's woman. I had some strong words with Ryan that night, and he told me that he would not do it again. The hatchet was buried. Unfortunately, the relationship between him and Maureen had already soured past repair. She never trusted him again, and sadly, I was caught in the middle.

Ryan also had his exceptional qualities, as evidenced by his behavior the following week. Ryan asked if he could borrow my car to go to the campus library. I gave him the keys, and he brought back a large pile of books. He carried the books into the house, struggling with their weight, stacked from his waist to his chin, and finally set them down on the bed in his room. At once, he started to read each book from cover to cover at a most incredible rate, one after another. After a few days, he returned the books to the library, brought home a new stack, and ingested them in a similar fashion. Eclectic in subject and technical in nature, he devoured each book in full and then looked for more. This was certainly unusual. I had never seen anyone read that fast before, at least not with any kind of comprehension or retention. From existential psychology to rural development and from business planning to the study of alcoholism, he sat at ease and read them all.

By the time Ryan was on his third stack, I decided to test him... so I pulled a book out from the middle of the stack while he was out, read a chapter, and then returned the book to its place. Subsequently, Ryan returned and, in short fashion, finished all the books. Later, I nonchalantly asked him about the book whose chapter I had read. To my amazement, he not only knew the material but was able to relate it in a most uncanny way to the other books that he was reading. I asked him how he could read so quickly, and he told me, in a matter-of-fact way, that he had a near perfect memory for whatever he read. He could take a page, scan it, and then move on to the next. Furthermore, he was able to simultaneously deconstruct and reconstruct the material as he read so that he could relate it to other subjects that he had read about. Taking this even further, he told me that he was a generalist. I assumed that this was someone who has some cursory knowledge in multiple areas. He corrected me, saying that he was someone who had in-depth knowledge in multiple areas. This boggled my mind. I had read of some people having unusual intellectual capabilities along these lines, but I had never encountered anyone with this degree of talent.

Over time, I began to put the pieces together regarding Ryan, and I ended up with, I concluded, something most extraordinary. I came to realize that the clock speed of his mind was extremely fast. Certainly, compared to my mind's clock speed, the throughput of information he could process was enormous! Furthermore, he could relate inexplicable things in the most creative ways. To his own surprise, and certainly to mine, he would have the answers to certain mathematical problems before he even started doing the calculations. I flashed back to the first time I had met him. Now, I had a glimpse as to why I originally, innately sensed that his mind was so powerful. It was indeed powerful and strikingly different from others. I once asked him what his IQ was. He just laughed and pushed the question aside, merely saying, "Very high."

Now, the ritual with the tea and the gazing into space in the mornings began to make sense. It was as if his mind needed to be booted up and put on-line. Initially, certain critical amounts of memory and processing power were needed. Algorithms, tautologies, and relational structures were referenced. Coupled or uncoupled, bound or unbound, encumbered or unencumbered, with a successive progression of integration his mind had an initial morning inertia all its own. Finally, when all was ready and brought up to speed, his mental capacity and agility were beyond impressive.

On the whole, Ryan Moran was both intriguing and frightening.
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE BIG BLACK WALL

"He doesn't have a pot to piss in...."

I met Julio for lunch at the campus cafeteria. "Well, sugar pie, any news?" I asked, as we ate our sandwiches in the crowded room.

"Sorry, honey pot, I got delayed," he said, putting down his sandwich to attend to our business. "I had some doctor appointments, and it took longer than I anticipated to finish up some of the lab runs that I was doing."

"Can ya still do it? Can you still make me a Psi-control Switch using only temperature gradients?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," he replied. "Just give me a bit more time."

"Great!" I smiled with satisfaction. After a couple more sandwich bites, I said, "Say, I've been hanging out with this guy, Ryan. He seems very smart and says he's taken classes here. I'm not sure what to make of him. Do ya think you can use your contacts to get a background check on him for me?"

Julio gave a knowing nod of his head and asked, "What's his name?"

"Moran," I replied. "Ryan Moran."

That night I had a wonderful dinner with Maureen and her two children, Matt and Jenna. Afterwards, we played a game where we would invent a new toy from the old, worn-out toys that they had. Matt, now seven years old, contributed an electronic toy, and Jenna offered a crayon coloring set. Maureen pitched in as we extracted the electric motor from Matt's toy and hooked it up to a battery and a switch. With a hot soldering iron in hand, I taught Matt and Jenna how to solder, sealing together the loose connections. Next, we taped a round piece of cardboard backing to the shaft of the motor and glued an equally sized, round piece of white paper onto the cardboard. With a flip of the switch the wheel rotated and the children touched their crayons to the spinning paper making circles and overlapping wave-like designs in all the colors of the rainbow. It wasn't much, but they were excited, laughing and giggling the whole time. Matt loved the mechanical aspects, and Jenna enjoyed the artistic nature of their new toy. I loved having a sense of family.

Maureen finally put the children to bed and then came down stairs into the living room. I hugged her and said, "I saw Julio, today, on campus."

"Oh?" she said. "And what did he have to say?"

"He said he's working on it, and it shouldn't be too much longer."

"Good," she said, smiling.

Maureen knew how much the Psi-control project meant to me, but like most people, she did not really know what to make of it. Once, Maureen had met Julio at a party that she and I both attended and seemed to like him. On the other hand, I had learned to steer away from conversations about Ryan due to her misgivings about him. When I would say something about Ryan, it was usually met with a skeptic's eye. But Julio seemed to be in Maureen's good books.

"Do you want to meditate?" I asked.

"Sure," she replied, with a nod of her head.

I turned down the lights in the living room so that there was only a faint glow emanating from the kitchen. In the silence, we sat across from each other meditating for about thirty minutes. Upon coming out of my meditation, I noticed Maureen looking across at me with a joyous, blissful look upon her face. I could also see and feel large concentric rings of dense blue light encircling my body. Well-formed, and being much larger at the bottom than at the top, they moved upward, picking up speed, until they vanished just above my head. With a distinctive inner noise—a "wuhh-wuhh-wuhh" sound—each ring of blue light rotated upward with another taking its place from below. Before long, I noticed that the same rings of light were emanating from Maureen's body in the same way. Soon, the rings of light began to merge between us into much bigger, synergistic rings. Now, blended together, these larger rings of light encircled us, enveloping us together at their rapturous centers. Traveling from the floor we sat upon to above our heads, the rings of light now produced a much louder sound that emanated from the overlapping of their waves. One could feel a great pressure in the merging. Here we sat in this great crescendo of blissful unity, our two subtle hearts merged into one.

Like Matt and Jenna previously that night—so delighted and enchanted by their newfound toy creating circles and waves of color—we too were enthralled by the circular light forms created about us. With the innocence and awe of children, we basked in the enchanting delight of God's wondrous design.

Without equivocation, I can truly say that I profoundly loved Maureen, and that love grew all the more deep as we sat conjoined as one within those ethereal rings of light and sound. That night, as Maureen and I lay in bed together, we talked of marriage. As I dozed off to sleep, I pondered an ancient Japanese koan—a paradoxical riddle posed by a spiritual master to aid a student's meditations. "Two hands clap and there is one sound; what is the sound of one hand clapping?" In the physical realm, sound is produced by our mind's interpretation of the vibrations of two objects striking one another; however, in the spiritual realm one can hear a wondrous variety of sounds as they arise spontaneously from an inner, primordial vibration. When this inner vibration merges from two spirits, becoming one, it produces a sound that is most beautifully blissful. This time the answer to the koan had a most exquisite twist—I now knew the sound of one hand clapping by two people.

Several days later, I received a message to meet Julio at the campus cafeteria. He was standing near an empty table when I approached him. "Hey, baby cakes," I greeted him.

He didn't respond, but instead he looked about nervously, and then confided, "I've got some information for you...."

"What information?" I asked. I had no idea what Julio was leading into.

"That guy—,"

"Ryan?" I asked.

"Yeah," Julio nodded.

"What about Ryan?"

"I spoke to my friends at the CIA. It looks like he's very rich," he responded.

"Rich?!" I exclaimed. "How can that be? He doesn't have a pot to piss in. For Christ's sake, he's sleeping in my back room!"

"I don't know," Julio said, "I'm just telling you what those guys from the agency told me."

I had a frown on my face as I continued to stare him in the eyes.

Julio hesitated, "... There's something else."

"What?" I asked.

Julio looked down at the floor and then back up at me and said, "There's a big black wall."

"What the hell is that?" I snapped back.

"Don't know," he said. "Just, nobody seems to be able to get over it. They all tried but said they've never seen anything like it before."

With that, he simply got up and quickly left.

What could make Julio act so differently? I wondered, as I watched him walk away. And what in God's name is that big black wall?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DARK MATTER

"Yes, it certainly is strange."

Matter manifests itself in the universe as that which can be seen and as that which cannot—the so-called dark matter. Although there is more dark matter in the universe, we tend to keep it in the background—in the dark, so to speak—focusing on that which can be seen. Likewise, my new universe began to form with Ryan at its center as the shadowy, inexplicable dark matter. Physicists only know that dark matter exists indirectly, by its gravitational pull; they have never actually seen it. Likewise, Ryan possessed his own form of attraction which pulled people and events into the mysterious center of his universe while his true form remained cloaked and hidden, not to be seen.

Which is more real, the seen or the unseen? And who exactly is Ryan? I asked myself.

In earlier days, in the 1950s, people would fly to Europe and visit a different country every day. It was a feast for the senses with art in France, beer in Germany, and chocolate in Belgium. Upon returning, travelers were eager to tell you all about their trip. In later years, in the 1960s, people would sit at home and place some "blotter" or "microdot" under their tongue—they too feasted on the sensational, telling you how they went tripping. Going further, after having tripped for many days, they would have a so-called "ground pill" by not taking any drug on that particular day. When they came back down to earth, to what we called reality, normalcy now seemed altered to them. "Wow—! Trippy!" they would say. When people gravitated around Ryan, they got "smoke and mirrors," deceptions, and ambiguous views of his true nature. But after blowing away the smoke and realigning the mirrors, one would come to realize that there was more unseen about him than seen. Unlike most people you meet who stretch the truth through self-aggrandizement in order to appear bigger and more important, Ryan did the contrary. His magic was to shrink himself, to become inconsequential right before your eyes. He was quite a trip.

Initially, I did not have the mental framework with which to navigate this new universe with Ryan at its nebulous center, as many puzzling and enigmatic events began to take place. Eventually, I stopped sharing these unusual and mysterious stories about Ryan with my friends. To what end were these stories useful in trying to explain my newfound friend to my other friends, they only muddied the waters. Like pulling out that single, loose thread on a sweater... soon there are many more to pull. Trying to explain Ryan only brought about more questions, rarely answers. To a large extent, the events surrounding Ryan were unusual, way out of the ordinary, but taken together, they ultimately told a story of something not immediately evident—a story of something deeply secret. Perhaps anomalistic when each event was seen separately, over time the events comingled to form an integrated, intelligible, cogent whole. Perhaps, had I been more nimble of mind and sharp of wit, I could have foreseen events coming, and, moreover, I could have foreseen the ultimate big picture. Meanwhile, little by little, the dark matter began to coalesce about me, reality changed, and the waters did grow muddy.

Bit by bit, as if in slow motion, the mysterious events and happenings that centered about Ryan began to unfold. And soon, it became apparent that I was to become a key player, a key person at the very center of Ryan's dark matter. Perhaps the critical turning point for me in these series of events began when Ryan let me in on his various business deals and personal affairs. No longer would I see Ryan as a homeless alcoholic who could spin a good yarn to wow my friends and crowds at bars... no, the dark matter that was Ryan would soon be revealed, brought to light—and I would hitch a ride as an unwitting traveler, invited along on the journey.

Parapsychology did not interest Ryan much, and over time, he didn't seem to want to discuss it anymore. It was as though a phase had ended and he wanted to move on to something new. We were able to spend quite a bit of time together now because I had reduced my hours at the hospital to part time so that I could continue to research aspects of parapsychology and spend more time with Maureen. Ryan was good company and always had a unique view of the world around him—views that I had never heard before. For example, when we stumbled upon a small T-shirt company inside the Maple-ton shopping mall, Ryan asked the owner if he would be willing to sell the shop. The owner replied that he would if he could get a fair price. When we left the shop, I asked Ryan why in the world he would want to buy a T-shirt store. He explained to me that he did not see the business as merely a T-shirt company but rather as a start to a communications corporation. How could someone take something so small and apparently insignificant and yet have such a large and unique view of it? This kind of different thought process piqued my interest and stimulated my mind.

Still, there was the lingering albatross of doubt and skepticism about my neck when it came to Ryan. On one hand, he had these unique stories and grand ideas that were exhilarating and fresh. On the other hand, I (and society at large) saw his alcoholism, lack of money, lack of employment, his being all but homeless, invisible college diplomas, and a host of other deficiencies. Could his grand stories merely be confabulations—spontaneous narratives of events conjured by his mind that never really happened? Could Ryan possess false memories, perceptions, or beliefs about himself and the world as a result of some psychological dysfunction? After all, things just did not seem to add up.

By now, Ryan was into yet another new phase; he had teamed up with Roland, a former professor at the university, to work on green initiatives. Ryan told me that he had been active at the beginning of the environmental movement starting in the late '60s and was involved, back then, on many levels, especially in the planning and architectural design of communities safe for the environment. He said that he, along with some of the best architects in the state, had already completed a large community project in the nearby town of Davidson—this was one of the first forward-thinking environmental projects for its time. Assuming this was all true, as Ryan had relayed it to me, it must have been well before his days of being a full-blown alcoholic and becoming nearly homeless. When Ryan told me the name of the primary architect on these projects, I went to the university library and found a book that the architect had written on this subject matter. Each page was almost word-for-word how Ryan had described the projects... but I could not find Ryan's name anywhere in the book. Maybe, in all the stacks of books he had been reading recently, he had read this book and memorized key details. I began to suspect that with his great memory Ryan could present information as being based on his own experience when in actuality it was not. Perhaps it was some dysfunctional form of alcoholic thinking, something akin to confabulations. Not wanting to embarrass him, I never brought up the issue.

Ryan had made me an associate in his Malta Business Company —a little company that carried out small-business planning and development with one of its strategies premised upon environmental concerns as its basis. Yes, Ryan's Malta Business Company was indeed a tiny company—as it turns out, Ryan was the only employee in this company! He was, in essence, CEO, CFO, business planner, and receptionist! This was his way of getting his foot in the door to, hopefully, partner with some of Mapleton's small, local companies that were of interest to him. Ryan hoped that by forming his own company he could pick up a few contracts through which he could earn a living. I had wanted to learn something different than pharmacy, and Ryan took notice of my interest in business matters. He allowed me to tag along on his various business ventures so that I could see and learn from his entrepreneurial skills firsthand. Thus, taken under his wing, he said that this associated business structure would allow me to be introduced as an associate of his company and yet not have an equity ownership stake in the company with all of the associated liabilities. I was now introduced by Ryan through his Malta Business Company as Doctor Teller, one of his business associates. To those in potential client companies, my title as "Doctor" from my pharmacy degree added further, substantive reasoning for my being there. I thought this farcical on one level, and pretentious to say the least, but I allowed myself to be a part of the ruse in order to watch Ryan in action.

My position as an associate in Ryan's Malta Business Company allowed me to watch as Ryan partnered with Roland when he helped out with rammed-earth homes and other ecological projects. Ryan specifically focused on the energy-saving aspects of these adobe-like buildings and how to establish loans from banks to proceed with their construction. Earth Day, solar energy, and green-line-boundary debates all fell under Ryan's environmental umbrella. The problem was that Roland did not have any money to pay Ryan for his work, and eventually Ryan started to look elsewhere for business people with deeper pockets.

Because Ryan and I shared only one phone in the house, I would listen when he telephoned Mitchell, an attorney from Berman Millennium City Business Towers, with whom he had first started out in business years earlier, in the 1960s. Back in the late '60s they had planned and carried out agricultural property development, both in New York State and the Midwest. Ryan depicted Mitchell to me as a young, aggressive lawyer who drove around in his Porsche looking for land deals. Although Ryan grew up in the suburbs of New York City, his jeans, cowboy boots, and trademark "Howdy" fit in well with the orchard farming community. They trusted him as one of their own and shied away from those who wore suits and ties—those like Mitchell. This afforded Ryan access to lucrative business deals. My impression, from listening to Ryan's side of their phone calls, since I could not hear Mitchell's side, was that Mitchell was cautious and guarded in his responses to Ryan's various requests to become, once again, a business partner with Mitchell. Although they had succeeded well as a team in the past, specifically in speculative land deals in the agricultural sector, the more Ryan persisted in the matter, the more Mitchell seemed to resist resurrecting their partnership. As far as I could tell, this was probably due to Ryan's past bouts of alcoholism, and so, soon, their phone conversations eventually stopped. It began to look like I was going to be helping Ryan with food and housing for longer than I had originally anticipated.

Ryan must have some illusions of grandeur from his years of drinking, I surmised. A veneer of grandeur over that apparent self-deprecation that one many times encounters with alcoholics. Maybe it's a psychological defense mechanism so that he can feel more important and capable than he really is, given his drinking and near homelessness. I decided to nod and listen politely when Ryan told me of his various ventures—past, present, and future—and to good-naturedly go along with his various plans so as to at least humor him and be his friend.

I visited with Ryan's father, John, on several occasions when Ryan took him out for lunch in Mapleton. John had opened a Ford car dealership after World War II and later branched out into other businesses, including real estate property development. Ryan told me that he had learned the real estate business from John and had put together a group of investors, accomplishing his first real estate syndication when he was just seventeen. John, an alcoholic for most of Ryan's life, had only recently sobered up. His mother Pat, however, was still a horror story in that regard. Because she still drank heavily, Ryan could not tolerate to be around her, and they would continually fight. I met Pat once when we took a trip to nearby Yaunsville to visit Ryan's parents. From what I was told, Ryan and his father were engaged in property development together involving the large, nearby dam. John and Pat lived in a house built on top of Mount Sarah at the back of the lake formed by the dam. As we drove there, Ryan pointed out the air strip at the bottom of the mountain, telling me the air strip was capable of supporting Sabreliner jets. Although this was the first time that I had ever heard of a Sabreliner jet, I still thought it odd that someone would bulldoze an airstrip at the foot of the mountain where Ryan's parents lived. Where I grew up, in the rural region of Dodson County, no one even had a paved driveway, let alone an airstrip.

"Your parents own an airstrip?" I asked Ryan, incredulously, as we ascended the windy mountain road to his parents' house.

"Yeah," Ryan responded as he focused on navigating the sharp curves of the road.

"How come?" I asked.

"In case a jet comes," he replied.

Well... there it is again, I thought to myself. Who could argue with that kind of rock-hard logic?

When I asked John how an airstrip came to be so near their home—and by a lake at the bottom of an isolated mountain, no less—he laughed and answered, enigmatically, that it was due to his affiliation with the Catholic Irish Alcoholics. Bewildered, I asked what that was, and he just laughed, and Ryan laughed along with him. I felt left out, sensing that this was the answer to some sort of family insider joke. I left it at that... at least until a later point in time when I learned, at long last, what John was referring to.

Before Ryan and I left for home, Ryan had a private conversation with his father outside, behind the house, and out of earshot of Pat. During our drive home, Ryan confided in me that he had tried to get his father to sell a piece of property that they jointly owned so that he could get some operating capital on which to live. John flatly rejected this idea, stating that it was tied up in a complex trust account. When I asked Ryan why he didn't just ask his father for a personal loan, he shrugged and said, "That won't work. Members of alcoholic families don't trust other members when it comes to money."

Yes, the muddy waters were persisting, but light was slowly being shed on the dark matter that was Ryan.

The week after the trip to meet Ryan's parents, I learned still more about Ryan when a female student at the university was accused of stealing a candy bar from the bookstore. Because of Ryan's affiliation with the university through his work with one of the attorneys in the business school, she came over to the house in tears asking for Ryan's help. He called up the prosecuting attorney involved in the case and backed him down by threatening to have a jury trial and then publishing the costs of the trial in the local newspapers. One could almost hear the whimpering on the other side of the phone as Ryan asked, "How much do you think that one candy bar will really cost you?" Although Ryan never used big, fancy words, each one packed a strategic wallop, striking its target—such as the now-stammering prosecution attorney—with devastating force.

This was when I learned that Ryan had a law degree but could not use it to practice law. He told me, "It was tied up with the government, and they would not release it." I was skeptical because there was no law degree or diploma to be seen. On the other hand, many of Ryan's older friends at La Champagne's bar were attorneys who trusted Ryan's opinions on legal matters—unless of course they were merely nodding and agreeing to humor him and be friendly toward him.... What the real story was regarding Ryan remained a conundrum.

Once, some months later, I helped Ryan and another attorney (who apparently trusted Ryan's legal views) win a court case. Ryan asked me if I would testify as an expert witness in the field of drugs and alcohol for his attorney friend. I made the decision to help his friend based on the generous financial offer that his friend made to me, and upon the fact that this was a new and fresh arena. I knew little of legal matters except for laws guiding the practice of pharmacy, and this was a unique opportunity for me to experience law practice inside a courtroom. The trial took place at the Roberts County Superior Court in Mapleton. A black freshman student at the university had been accused of the attempted rape of a white woman. He had gotten drunk with some of his friends, and in his intoxicated stupor he had entered the wrong house. Many of the simple, clapboard houses in the tract looked the same, especially at night. In those days, Roberts County was known for its racial prejudice, and when an unfamiliar black man encountered a white woman under certain suspect conditions, it was considered tantamount to rape. The evidence in this particular case, however, did not support the presumption of rape. I testified that because of his exceedingly high blood alcohol level, coupled with his lack of drinking experience, he must have been vastly beyond confused during the incident—certainly he was in no condition to intentionally commit rape with malice let alone forethought! Truth be told, based on his blood alcohol levels, he was likely nearly hallucinating.

Through my testimony as an expert witness, I was able to convince the jury of this, and we saved him from a long and wrongful prison sentence.

When I left the courthouse, I ran into Ryan's friend, the attorney, who had just defended the case and was rushing on his way to another courtroom. I caught his attention and asked him what he thought of the trial. He said that my testimony had turned the tide of the jury and that Ryan's legal defense was brilliant. The attorney rushed off, but I stood there quite confused because Ryan was never in the courtroom. How could a man without a degree or a framed law license nailed upon the wall be that good?

When I arrived home, I found Ryan sitting on his little mattress in his underwear with a glass of iced tea in one hand and a book in the other. He was happy when I told him that we had won the case. Then, I asked him how he had been involved in the case in the first place. He told me that he had presented some ideas to his attorney friend and also recommended that the attorney hire me. With that, he returned to his reading. I sat upon my bed trying to reconcile the disparate parts of a brilliant legal defense with that of the man who was now sitting in his underwear and sipping iced tea in the other room.

Quite mysteriously, Ryan always seemed to know what was happening at the Lockport Community Hospital—part of a huge national healthcare company—where Maureen and I worked. This was especially true when it came to events at the top of the corporate structure. A fly on the wall could not have known so much. For example, one morning, as I was preparing for work and Ryan was mixing a pitcher of iced tea, he told me to expect some changes at work. I asked him what he meant, and he told me that the hospital system where I worked was being sold to a European company. When I asked him how he knew that, Ryan told me that he and his father, John, owned a considerable amount of stock in Quality Medical Enterprise, the parent corporation of Lockport Hospital. It turned out that John was a good friend of the man who first started the corporation. This was too much to digest. How could there be that much of coincidence involved, I wondered, that even Ryan's dad was involved, let alone that Ryan had some sort of control over my work environment. Surely, he must have read it in some business journal, or perhaps heard it from one of his lawyer friends. The man in my back room, who by now had his stomach distended over his shorts from drinking too much iced tea, certainly had nothing to do with this. The world simply did not work that way.

At work that morning, no one knew anything about this news of a sale, and Maureen became indignant when I told her where I had gotten my information. The supervisor at the pharmacy told me that this was news to him, and when I cornered the hospital administrator in one of the corridors, he wanted to know who was starting these unfounded rumors. A week later, everyone was red-faced when it was published in the local newspaper and elsewhere that not only was our hospital to be sold, but the entire national chain of hospitals was being sold to a German medical conglomerate.

Slowly, more of the various, seemingly unrelated pieces of the ongoing puzzle began to fall into place. There were those phone calls during the day from Hollywood stars, such as Roberta, Julia, Wrena, and the rest. When finally off the phone, Ryan would tell me various details about these women and the others he had dated in Los Angeles. A few top-named musicians also called, thanking Ryan for starting out their careers. Wild! In some cases he was even the ghostwriter for some of their songs! That helped to explain his Hollywood musical name, "The Crescendo."

Purportedly, there were a plethora of these phone calls from Hollywood stars and L.A. musicians. At least that is what Ryan claimed. Of course I never heard their voices on the other end of the line. He was always conveniently in the middle of a conversation when I arrived home from work. Were these supposed phone calls staged? Make believe? Still, Ryan had a way of making it all seem so convincing. Either he was a great actor himself, making his side of the conversation sound so real—like he really was talking to Roberta, Julia, Wrena, and the rest—or else it was more smoke and mirrors... or delusion. Still, if it was real? Wow! Yet, while Ryan claimed that he was the ghostwriter for some top-named L.A. musician's songs, I never saw Ryan play an instrument or even hum a tune in the shower.... Like a deer perpetually caught in the headlights between Ryan's world and reality, I never knew quite what to believe.

Then there were the many people who started coming over to the house to get counseled by him. He did this at no charge and greatly enjoyed the experience of helping others. Some were from AA, others had just gotten out of prison, and a few were referred to him, he said, by health care professionals as "resistant cases." Ryan was, in many respects, their last resort for help.

Yes, my humble meditation abode had suddenly become quite the worldly hub. Real or not, life with Ryan was exciting, filled with new possibilities. It was as dynamic a time as it was puzzling and doubt-filled. Ryan kept sharing more of the "unseen" with me as he began to separate the wheat from the chaff. But all of the preceding was like small potatoes compared to what would follow.

There came the one evening when he allowed me to see much more of him than he had ever shared before. Like a collection of unique and large sparkling diamonds, something this precious was to be locked well out of sight—its multifaceted beauty kept behind an impenetrable wall of security, only to be shown privately on extremely rare occasions. Ryan's whole story was to be disclosed one piece at a time, for if the collection of episodes evolving from Ryan's life were to be shown in full, the brilliance would overwhelm the beholder.

I remember it starting early one morning, shortly after we awoke, with a shout from his room, "Hey, Ira!"

"Yeah? What's up?" I called back, from my bed.

"Come here, will ya? I want to show you something," he said.

I got up and opened his door, finding him efficiently attired in only his underwear. He was lying on his stomach with a pillow under his chest to prop him up while he looked at some papers. Turning over, he held out the documents to me, saying, "I wanna show you these."

I walked to the edge of the bed and grabbed the proffered papers and began to scan them. "What's this?" I asked, a bit perplexed, as I tried to make sense of it.

"That's my company," he said, nonchalantly, while sitting up and leaning against the wall.

"Your company?!" I asked, bewilderment and amazement comingled in my voice. I found the top of a spreadsheet that listed seventeen corporate divisions that were organized by bolded headings: Energy, Agriculture, Communications, et cetera. "Whoa!" I exclaimed, still studying the documents. "This is... yours?!" I asked, knowing that we were no longer talking about his Malta business company.

"Yeah," he replied, matter-of-factly. I was silently studying the sheets when he added, "Most of that is offshore."

I was now lost in a tangle of subdivisions and organizational charts and asked, perhaps somewhat lamely, "Where offshore?" My mind was still trying to take it all in. Ryan... homeless... I take him in... we become pals... now he tells me he owns multimillion dollar corporations... never mind he has a law degree! Where offshore?

"Down South," he replied.

I shot a glance in his direction. "It's really yours?"

"Uh huh," he nodded, with a wry smile. "I didn't want to lose it because I was drinking, so I tied it up in a trust and let Erika run it," he explained.

"Who's Erika?" I asked.

"An ex-girlfriend of mine," he replied. "We went to school together. Smart girl." I was still lost in the enormity of it all when he asked, "Are you off tonight?"

"Yes," I said, handing him back the papers and acting as though nothing of any real consequence had just occurred.

"Good. I want to show you something up at Ron's orchard."

"Okay. What time tonight?" I asked.

"Meet me here at eight o'clock," he said.

"Okay," I replied, and walked out.

Returning to my room, I sat down on my bed feeling disoriented and confused. The gears of my mind were spinning as if in neutral and unengaged. I could not move. I felt as if I had one foot on the gas, exploring something new, and the other on the brake, feeling a massive amount of doubt and skepticism. Sure, Ryan had previously presented many aspects of himself and his past, some of which I believed, some of which I was highly skeptical of, and some of which was flat-out unbelievable. This, though, was something that, if true, was beyond the worldly dimensions of my intellectual boundaries. But... this was stark reality! Or... was it? I could have pinched myself! I sat there motionless, for what seemed an eternity, spinning my wheels deeper into the dark matter.

Weeks earlier, Ryan had been invited to a dinner by Ron, a prominent attorney in the community. Being an associate with the Malta Business Company, I was also invited to go along. Ryan was helping Ron evaluate the assets of an orchard that was about an hour north of Mapleton. Not knowing much about business, I didn't participate in their conversation but only listened. As they talked, Ron mentioned that he had a brother who was the head of a large, national lumber company, and that caught Ryan's attention. A few weeks later, Ron's daughter also caught Ryan's attention (ultimately becoming one of Ryan's many wives). By now I had learned that women and business were the two things Ryan liked the most—aside from cigarettes and iced tea.

That evening, we got into my car and Ryan drove us to the apple orchard. We soon came to the orchard with its old, weathered barn that was used to house pruning equipment and a dusty, dirt-packed road. Driving to the back of the barn, we pulled up to a young apple grove of substantial acreage. Getting out of the car, the moonlight guided us to the center of the new orchard. Here, Ryan started to pound the heel of his boot into the topsoil, kicking a hole until he hit a hard substratum of soil known as pan. "Damn it! Will you look at that?" he complained, while scraping away the top layer of soil with his boot. "There's barely a few inches of loam here," he commented, with some bemusement, and then added, "Loam is soil composed of a mixture of sand, clay, silt, and organic matter. It's important for these trees to have good drainage and the amount of loam here won't cut it. Ryan's eyes scanned the forest of apple trees in the moonlight, "Boy—," he shook his head, "this guy, Ron, is more squirrely than a shithouse rat, and these trees are valued way too high on the books."

With that, we went back to the car and started the drive home. "It's amazing how sneaky and dishonest people are," he commented, as I sat in silence. "This deal was supposed to be audited. You need to learn from this," he advised, glancing in my direction. "Never believe what people tell you unless you verify it's true, okay?"

"Okay. Got it," I said, the point not being lost on me.

We drove in silence until Ryan made an unexpected turn at a sign that said, "Mapleton Airport."

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"You'll see," he said. "I want to show you something else." We passed a few small hangers that were half hidden in the shadows as we drove along the runway's edge. It was a small airport that I had never visited before. Finally, we pulled up to one of the hangers at the far end of the runway. Parked beneath a single light high atop a pole was a midsized private jet. Sleek and trim, the jet's hull was painted a charcoal black, its silhouette merging into the night. The interior lights were on, and a ramp led from the tarmac to the jet's open door. A single guard stood at the bottom of the ramp. All was oddly quiet.

We got out of the car, and I couldn't help but exclaim, "Wow—!" in a low hushed voice as we approached the guard. Nothing about Ryan had prepared me for this. With a wave of Ryan's hand the guard silently nodded and stepped aside. Without a word spoken by anyone, we walk up the ramp and boarded the jet. It was all exceedingly strange and surreal. I felt totally out of place.

"This is one of the Sabreliner jets from my company's fleet," Ryan explained. As we made our way to the front cabin, my mind quickly flashed back to the documents that he had handed me earlier that morning regarding his corporation. He sat down in the pilot's seat and motioned to me saying, "Here, you sit over here." As I took the co-pilot's seat, I was definitely feeling a bit dazed and out of my element. What is this all about? I wondered. Ryan had previously told me stories of flying jets for the military and of flying commercial jets for TWA, but I had no idea that he owned a corporation that owned jets until that morning. The first time that I had ever heard of the term "Sabreliner" was when he pointed out the bulldozed airstrip near his parent's house. But now, here was a real Sabreliner and I was sitting in the cockpit!

The sudden, abject truth hit me like a ton of bricks. Dazed, and as if to test reality, I looked back down the aisle and asked, "How many people does it hold?"

"Ten," he answered, and then proceeded to explained to me the different systems and instruments aboard the jet. Switches, levers, knobs—all were explained both above and below. After about fifteen minutes of this, we got up and exited the jet to resume our drive home.

On our drive home, Ryan left me alone to ponder all I had seen and all he had told me knowing that his point at the orchard about always verifying what people say is true before you believe it had hit its mark. Indeed, what he had told me earlier that morning about his corporations was now verified as true. He had just shot me right between the eyes with the truth about himself, and it was mind numbing. In one fell swoop, the myriad doubts that I'd had about Ryan's accomplishments, about his true persona, were now wrung out. Seeing the incongruence about who Ryan really was versus the apparent smallness he outwardly projected was shocking. Good Lord! I thought to myself. Could I really have been blindsided by the truth that he was telling me all along? This homeless alcoholic who people had belittled because of his tall tales and incongruity to societal norms was really a teller of the truth. He was a man whose stature on the world stage was certainly larger than any that I had ever encountered before. I was humbled and numb with silence. Perhaps it was just too much to absorb in one day.

Ryan drove us back to my small apartment in my car. As we got out of the car, I thanked him for the tour of the jet. Ryan went into the apartment as I got into the car and drove to Maureen's condominium. It was late, and she had just gotten into bed but wasn't asleep yet. I got undressed and crawled into bed beside her.

Excitedly, I told her about the corporate documents that Ryan had shown me earlier that morning regarding his companies and the unexpected visit to the Sabreliner jet that night. The more I talked, the more the skeptical expression on her face grew, until she exclaimed, wide-eyed, "Oh, come on! You mean they just let you walk onto a jet and let Ryan sit in the pilot's seat?!"

"Well... yes," I said.

"Don't you find that strange?" She asked, pulling the covers about her. Then, without letting me answer, she rolled onto her side and went to sleep as if to emphasize the point.

I lay there looking up at the ceiling and thinking, Yes, it certainly is strange. I had just witnessed my first glimpse of truly dark matter and was hurtling full speed towards its gravitational core.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SHOW TIME

"I've seen a lot of strange things in my lifetime...."

Finally, it was done. The Psi-control Switch was ready for its maiden run. I met Julio late one night on the third floor of the science building. It was a typical university lab consisting of long rows of lab benches—black counters atop cupboards and drawers, punctuated with sinks, gas nozzles, and electrical outlets. Some students' experiments were in progress with papers taped in front of them stating, "DO NOT TOUCH!" or "HANDS OFF!" The laboratory was a cauldron of innovation—with a sprinkling of potential and a dash of wits, it bubbled and percolated, trying to serve up the next great bowl of human achievement.

"Hey, sugar daddy, I'll be just a minute setting this up," Julio said, as I walked toward the front of the lab. With most of the lab equipment still on aluminum carts, he set the Psi-control Switch on the lab bench and started connecting the wires.

As I watched Julio work, I remembered where we first met. It was at the apartment of a woman that I knew from the university. I was visiting her and her brother for a social dinner, and she told me that her new boyfriend, Julio, would be joining us shortly. With a knock on the door, he had arrived. Rushing from the kitchen, she opened the front door and greeted him with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Julio hugged her back, lifting her off her feet.

"Hey, let me finish dinner, and then we can talk. Why don't you go over and meet Ira? He's sitting on the couch in the living room," she said, and went back to the kitchen to help her brother finish cooking the meal.

Julio walked into the living room and sat down on the couch next to me. "She's "great!" Julio said, a sappy grin still plastered to his kissed cheek.

"Oh, yeah, she is," I replied, "but the younger brother is a real pest."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "I'd like to kill the little bastard myself."

"Oh, no!" I shot, feigning mock incredulity. "Better to cut off the last half-inch of his manhood. That way he will always remember you for the rest of his life. Besides, then we can call him 'Stubby' for short."

Julio gave out a hearty laugh, realizing he had met a brother of dark humor and said, "Boy, I like the way you think." He thought a moment, still chuckling and joked, " 'Stubby for short'... no pun intended, eh?"

I laughed, "Good one!" Yep, we would get along famously.

"There," Julio said, while connecting the last of the wires. My attention snapped from reminiscing to Julio and the apparatus on the lab bench. "Just like you said you wanted. I've got the thermistor in an isolated bucket, and that's all in this insulated box." He patted the top of the box to emphasize his point and then continued, "And I've got this potentiometer to show the temperature read out." Julio paused and surveyed his creation. "Oh, yeah. See this straight line here?" he asked, while pointing to the line from the printer head. "Nothing's going to change the temperature in that box; I've already tested it. And this oscillator, here, is connected to that speaker—that's the audio feedback you wanted. If the temperature goes up, you'll hear the tone change, the pitch will go up."

"What about the delta switch to turn on a light like I wanted? I don't see where you even installed a light," I said, adding, "I'll need that concept in there when I apply for a patent."

"That's a foregone conclusion," he said, with a smile. "By the laws of science, if this thermistor changes, a light would go on if we were to have a delta switch and a light set up. Fact is, I don't think you can get that thermistor to change just by using your mind. Things just don't work that way."

There was a short period of awkward silence between us because I felt a little dejected that the design was not completed with a light installed, but I did not want to express my disappointment to Julio. After all, he was doing me a favor due to our friendship, and I was just grateful that he had gotten this far.

"Fantastic!" I finally said, sidestepping the awkwardness between us. "Can I try it?"

"Sure," he said, "but I've already tested quite a few people and it doesn't budge. With a grin, he turned around to the opposite lab bench and started working on another one of his projects.

I turned to the Psi-control Switch apparatus sitting on the lab bench before me and went through a mental checklist of its parts and functions. Julio had suggested that we use a thermistor—a type of resistor with resistance varying according to its temperature—instead of a thermometer to detect temperature changes. The change in the thermistor's resistance could be directly correlated to temperature change, and unlike a thermometer we could get more sensitive and more accurate readings with smaller temperature fluctuations. The real critical part was to isolate the system so that it was not affected by temperature changes in the surrounding environment. In other words, I wanted to see only temperature changes and only from a person's psychokinetic powers, not just from small temperature changes inherently present in the room. Julio accomplished this by putting a temperature isolated system inside another temperature isolated system. Hence, he put the thermistor with its attached wires inside a temperature insulated bucket, and then he put this entire bucket inside an even larger temperature insulated box to ensure that any detected change in temperature was not introduced from the environment.

Next to this he had the electrical wires coming from the thermistor and isolation box connected to a rather squat rectangular box with multiple knobs and dials at its bottom. On the top of this squat box was built in a continuous paper-roll printer. This was the potentiometer. Julio could change the various voltage and resistance settings on this device so that the line coming out from the ink-producing print head produced a straight line with no variations up or down. This meant that the temperature of the thermistor was not changing, that it was at a constant. If there was any kind of temperature change inside the isolation chamber, then we should see the print head, which was connected on a rod, move up or down corresponding to the change in temperature and record this change on the printer paper. If a test subject did indeed have psychokinetic capabilities and was able to change the temperature, then we should witness a change in the print head as it moved up or down, away from the straight line on the graph paper.

Finally, at my request, Julio had wires leading from the potentiometer to an oscillator connected to speakers as a rapid means of providing feedback to the test subject. I knew from my readings in the parapsychological literature that feedback to the subject helped intensify paranormal effects. In this case, if there was no change in the temperature and the printer head remained straight-lined, then no sound would come from the oscillator's speaker. If, however, the test subject increased the temperature psychokinetically, then we would hear an increase in the pitch of the oscillator corresponding to the increase in temperature rise. Conversely, if the test subject decreased the temperature from the straight line, we would hear a decrease in the pitch as the temperature fell.

There was, however, that one aspect of my design which was missing—a delta switch that would turn on a light bulb. Julio was correct, it did not take a rocket scientist to understand, that if we could change the temperature, then, theoretically, we could note this change with a delta switch and make a light bulb turn on or off. The real crux of the matter was, could a test subject change the temperature psychokinetically? Would there be a change from the baseline temperature? I am sure that in Julio's mind, and that of the world's, this could not be done as it would violate all of the known laws of science. I believed him when he said that he had tested the device and it stayed in a straight line position on the graph paper indicating that he was unable to affect any temperature changes. Also, I believed him when he said that he had other people try to change the temperature with their minds and they also could not do so. In Julio's mind, this is what was to be expected so why should he bother with setting up a delta switch with a light bulb? Obviously it would be a waste of time. With the thermistor isolated the way that he had it, no one in the universe was going to mentally change it. A temperature change of this type would be unfathomable. Now, however, it was my turn to prove him and the world wrong.

I stared at the Psi-control Switch, noticing the connections between the various components, but I wasn't sure what to do. It was like trying to find the ignition switch on an alien's flying saucer. In a moment of utter frustration, I finally imagined the end of the thermistor with a match under it as though I was heating it up. Stewing, I held that image in my mind's eye for a moment, when suddenly the pitch of the tone from the speaker rose rapidly for several seconds and then the printer head began to move upwards.

"What?!" Julio exclaimed upon hearing the tone change. Squinting and frowning, Julio rechecked the wiring of the device, played with the knob and dial settings on the graph recorder until the system was reset at a straight line. When satisfied that the instruments were finally operating correctly, he turned back around to focus on his other experiment. I stared at the straight line of the graph, and, again, mentally placed the end of the thermistor into a flame. The oscillator's pitch shot up at a faster rate to an even higher level with the ink-producing print head on the graph responding with an upward movement.

"What the?" Julio turned around abruptly, looked at the device and then looked at me. "Did you do that?" He asked, with a look of abject surprise on his face.

"Ah...I think so," I replied, rather sheepishly, not being at all sure.

Julio checked all of the wiring once again, saying "Let's give it another minute to reset." The tone of the speaker grew quieter, and the graph finally calmed down to produce a straight line. "Okay," Julio said, looking at me, as if daring me, "make it go up."

In my mind's eye, I once again held the end of the thermistor in a flame. Again, the tone soared upward in pitch.

"Can you make it go down?" he asked, anxiously. Intrigued and excited, this was more than Julio ever expected.

"Don't know," I replied. "I'll try." This time I envisioned the thermistor tip submerged in ice, and, accordingly, the oscillator tone immediately lowered.

Julio was flabbergasted. He had me stand at different positions within the room, including outside the door and looking in through the small window. No matter where he situated me, it was always with the same results.

Finally, he pulled me over to one of the windows facing toward the street below and looked down. "Do you see that street lamp down there across the road?" he asked, tapping on the windowpane.

"Yes," I said. "Why"?

"I want you to stand under that lamppost, and when I wave my hand, I want you to do it again, okay?

"Sure, okay," I said, and then headed down the three flights of stairs to wait under the lamppost for Julio's signal.

He came over to the window, waved at me, and then vanished from my view, likely rushing back to the apparatus. I tried conjuring the image again, but I could not hear the oscillator's tone from that far away. Not knowing what had happened, I stared up at the window waiting for Julio to give me some sign.

Suddenly, the door to the building burst open as Julio ran toward me. There was a wild, almost crazed look on his face. Reaching me, he pulled out a cigarette, and with his hands trembling he lit it. Clearly, he was visibly shaken. He sat down on the curb, took a puff, and looked up at me. "Ya know, Ira," he all but stammered, "I've seen lots of strange things in my lifetime... but... that apparatus isn't supposed to work like that."

Several days later, I returned to the lab with Julio, Maureen, and some of my friends. We tested them all with no results, except for Maureen. She was able to make the oscillator's tone change faster and its pitch higher than even I could. I must say I was a little bit jealous of her, yet also extremely proud.

Still, redemption was mine. With a ladleful of possibilities, I stirred that steaming cauldron ultimately serving up a bowlful of hope for all mankind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FORTUNE COOKIE

"Never give up a ride, no matter what."

I invited Ryan out for Chinese food so I could tell him about the success of the Psi-control Switch. Based on my past experience, I knew this needed to be done discreetly because his questioning could be brutal, like that of a prosecuting attorney. He had the uncanny ability to reach into another person's mind and twist or manipulate their thoughts until he had extracted what he wanted. Like a visit to the dentist, this was not always a pleasant experience—the dentist being the less arduous of the two.

Ryan's mind, his sheer intellect, was beyond anything most of us will ever encounter in another. The purposeful, strategic comingling of his creative, analytic, perceptive, and basic cognitive abilities was superior, to say the least. I have met very intelligent people in my life, and they have a certain way of being and thinking—but none could prepare me for Ryan. He did not accomplish all that he had because he was merely brilliant; it went way beyond that. To put it bluntly, he had the ability to delve into other people's minds and change their thoughts around. This was not just my impression of Ryan, but (as I later learned) the impression of others as well. I have never met anyone whose mind I actually feared at times except for Ryan's due to this adroit thought manipulation capability. And so, on the drive to the Chinese restaurant, I initially held off telling him the good news about the Psi-control Switch because I anticipated in-depth, massively detailed and critical questioning, scathing judgment, and worse. I wanted to still have a good appetite by the time we arrived, not have my stomach in knots.

"So?" He asked, as he drove the car.

Oh, Christ, I thought, he already senses something is up.

Ryan's mind was in high gear, and mine was just idling. Not feeling ready for intense cross-examination, I searched for ways to deflect the impending interrogation. I could tell him that this needs to wait until dinner, but then the steel coils of his mind would wrap around my thoughts, squeezing it out of me. I searched for alternatives. What could I throw in his path? If I could tell him later, while he was eating, this would divide his focus, softening the blows. Broach some other subject? I asked myself. No, he would see right through that and start dissecting me. What if I just stay quiet and wait him out? That won't work either, I surmised, He will probe my flank smashing through to plunder my thoughts. My mind began to race. What time is it? I suddenly wondered. He had only taken one puff of his cigarette so far, but it was like a fuse burning down toward the end. Little time left, came to my mind. Ryan's "So?" was merely a one-word question, but how to get around it? He's taken the second puff, I noted. The fuse was growing shorter. Only seconds left. What if I...?

Too late, I realized, as Ryan made the three impatient taps of his fingers upon the steering wheel. In desperation, I executed a pre-emptive strike in an effort to overwhelm the steel coils. "Julio says the Psi-control Switch works!" I asserted, point blank. There, that should have him stymied!

Ryan grimaced and his lips tightened. Glancing in my direction, he rebutted the remark, "What makes you think Julio works for the right side?"

Damn It! I said to myself. My mind had been racing as fast as it could go, and now it hit a wall. Ryan had just thrown a wrench in my thought processes, a fly in the ointment. What the hell does he know about Julio? All that I told Ryan previously was that Julio is a grad student and a friend at the university who I asked to set up a test model of the switch. And... what on earth is "the other side?" I wondered. A log jam of thoughts formed in my mind. Nothing moved. I was hopelessly lost in my own mental maze of questions without answers, seemingly endless in their permutations. Then I noticed a way out and seized upon it.

"How come you keep looking in the rearview mirror?" I asked.

His eyes took another long, hard look. "I think I recognize the guy in the car behind us," he replied.

"How do you know him?" I asked, without turning to look behind us.

"I recognize the license plate" he said, as we pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.

The restaurant, Kung Pao, was a mom-and-pop kind of place. Simple and unsophisticated, the décor featured glossy, white painted walls with the usual assortment of Asian pictures adorning them. A young woman sat at a table recessed behind the cash register counter. She filled dumplings with stuffing, squeezed them into shape, and then placed them on a tray. With a dumpling in her hand she merely motioned to us to enter because she did not, most likely, speak English. We selected a table in the middle of the restaurant among the other diners. An elderly Chinese waiter came over and took our orders—mine was vegetarian; Ryan's was beef.

Finally, after the dinners were served, I began to tell Ryan, in more detail, exactly what had happened in the lab with Julio and the Psi-control Switch, knowing he would be more relaxed and receptive as he ate. Soon, he showed some interest by asking questions regarding the isolation of the system from ambient temperature variation and the sensitivity of the thermistor. I explained these to his satisfaction, and he asked more questions, which I handled equally adroitly. Hey, this isn't so hard after all, I thought.

We were enjoying our meal, when Ryan asked, "So, what are you going to do next?"

"I'm going to get a patent, first," I replied.

"Patent!" he exclaimed, with a smirk. "You know... when we get home, I'm going to paint a target on the wall... and you can slam your head into it all night long so that when you stop in the morning, it will feel good."

I gave a nervous, little laugh. "Look," I said, "the only way that someone will invest in this is if I have a patent and a working model."

"Did you read the books I got for you?" He asked.

"The ones on the R&D Limited Partnership?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"I did," I replied, confidently.

"And...?" he prodded, leaning back into his chair.

"And I'm going to see the attorney you told me about... over at the university... soon."

"Soon?" he asked, his eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Uh... yeah, soon... you know, next week," I responded, knowing that he didn't like open ended answers.

"Good," he said.

I was halfway through my bok choy when I noticed some nearby commotion out of the corner of my eye. I also grew aware of some subtle, yet somewhat agitated conversing, but it wasn't disruptive enough to warrant my full attention. Just then, a young Chinese waiter came to our table, set the bill down, and placed a fortune cookie in front of each of us. I broke mine open and read the fortune while nibbling on a piece of the cookie.

"What's yours say?" Ryan asked, with a smile.

"Ah, just the usual 'fame and fortune' stuff," I replied. "And yours?" I asked.

Ryan leaned forward and handed me the small strip of paper across the table. I read it out loud, "Bigtop wants to speak with you tonight." I paused and reread the fortune silently. What the...? 'Bigtop'?" I reiterated looking across the table at Ryan with interest. "Who the hell is 'Bigtop'?"

"Come on, let's go," was all Ryan said, as he stood up and took the bill.

Life with Ryan was becoming a three-ring circus with no end of surprises, twists and turns, that was for sure.

It was past dusk when we left the restaurant. We drove several blocks to a payphone he spotted next to a local pizza parlor. Ryan parked at the curb and got out, jingling coins in his trousers pocket. I followed behind, as he approached the phone, and then watched him dial. I couldn't see his face, but I heard bits of the conversation. "Yeah," Ryan said, and then, moments later, replied, "I don't know." There was a long silence as he listened on the receiver. Finally, he said, "He's here with me." There was another period of silence after which he said, "Yes...," followed by another pause. At last, Ryan simply said, "Okay." Hanging up the phone, Ryan turned to me and said, simply, "Let's go."

We drove home in awkward silence, skipping the usual small talk as a peculiar heaviness filled the air. I still remember the hard, focused look in Ryan's eyes as he drove the car. I kept quiet, not daring to ask any questions. Upon our arrival home, at the apartment, Ryan sat down in the chair in my room and put the phone in his lap. I sat down on the edge of my bed facing him. With a serious expression on his face, he asked, "Well, do you want to be a part of this?"

"A part of what?" I asked.

"This—," he answered, his tone intensely serious.

Okay, he knows I am into the paranormal...but now he expects me to be a mind reader? I was puzzled, but I discerned that "This" had to do with all of the mystery surrounding his past. Seeking some clarification, I asked, again, "Who's Bigtop?"

"Bigtop is the head of the CIA—you know, what my father and I euphemistically call the 'Catholic Irish Alcoholics'—or at least he's the head of the part that actually runs it," he answered.

I took a moment to digest the information. My mind flashed on the conversation with John and Ryan the other day when we were at the mountain by the dam, by the airport and the Sabreliner jets, their mentioning the Catholic Irish Alcoholics as a euphemism for, I now realized, the CIA. How they had chuckled, then, at their inside joke. But now, Ryan was deadly serious. There was an aura of intrigue and excitement mixed with a sense of danger and the unknown. It was a dark and narrow road, but it needed to be explored. With my hitchhiker's creed of "Never give up a ride, no matter what," I hopped on board. "Okay," I said, staring back at him in reciprocal seriousness.

"Are you sure?" he asked, still holding me in his solemn gaze.

"Yes, I'm sure," I replied.

Ryan nodded, accepting my agreement to "be a part of this" and handed me the phone, saying, "Dial this number, and when it rings, followed by dead air, silence, let me know."

I dialed the number he gave me and then nodded in his direction.

"Now state your name and count backwards from ten," he continued.

I spoke into the mouth piece, "Ira Teller. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."

When I was done counting backwards, Ryan instructed, "Now hang up."

I placed the receiver in its cradle and handed the phone back to him.

With a smile, he said, "You're in."

"I'm in?" I parroted back to him.

"Yes, you're in," Ryan's blue-gray eyes sparkled as he smiled at me.

I'm in..., I thought. But... what had I just done?

My mind searched for answers, but there were none. I had just thumbed the ride of a lifetime, yet all that I had found was a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach, and it was not from the fortune cookie that I ate.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PATENT PENDING

"... I gave you that demonstration and it blew your mind."

Several days later, early one morning, Julio loaded the apparatus into the trunk of my car, and we were off to patent attorney Jay D. Abram's law office for a demonstration of the Psi-control Switch. My hopes for getting a patent on it finally seemed within reach.

As we drove, I pondered my conversation with Ryan the previous evening when I had asked him what he meant by his question about Julio being on the "right side." He had explained to me that the Central Intelligence Agency was internally fractured and that, at times, different sides within the agency would work against each other. He told me that he was aware that Julio had friends within one of these splinter groups, but he assured me that Julio's alliance with them would not be a significant problem; this splinter group, comprised of old buddies from Julio's Vietnam War days, was at a low level of operations and, therefore, was not a cause for concern. When I then asked Ryan how he knew about all of this, he explained to me that although he did work for the CIA at times, it was under a contractual agreement between his organization and the CIA. This was the first time that Ryan had broached these subjects with me. Because Ryan was judicious in how open and candid he chose to be at any given moment, I, accordingly, decided to hold off on asking him any further probing questions until some other time. For now, I would concentrate on the task at hand, wowing patent attorney, Jay D. Abrams, with the Psi-control Switch.

Julio and I greeted Jay D. Abrams, the patent attorney at his office in Middletown. After I introduced Julio, he set the Psi-control Switch apparatus up on Jay's desk and gave a cursory explanation of how it worked. This was my chance to show Jay the working model as I had promised him at our initial meeting many months earlier. Although we still did not have a delta switch or a light hooked up— Julio, busy with the university and his research, did not have time to install them—Jay was in agreement that if we could change the temperature, then theoretically a light could be turned on.

"So," Jay commented to both of us, with a tinge of skepticism. "Ira's going to change the temperature with his thought waves?"

"Jay," I interrupted, "We have gone over this many times before. Not thought waves but Psi, which is its own entity."

"Oh. Sorry," Jay perfunctorily apologized, and then proceeded, "So, Ira's going to use his Psi—his parapsychological abilities—to change the temperature to make a theoretical light go on?"

"Yes," I approved, "that's better."

Then, Jay asked me, "Ira, would you step into the other room for a moment while I speak to Julio? I'll call you when we're ready."

"Sure," I said, curtly, not liking the exclusion. I stepped out, closing the door behind me. A short time had passed when I heard Jay shout through the door, "Okay, Ira, you can come back. We're all set now."

I reentered the room and asked, "Is it zeroed out yet?"

Julio responded, "Yes, you can do it now."

I was standing about five feet from the desk, and within a few seconds of focusing my mind, the temperature began to rapidly rise. Jay watched with interest, but he showed little emotion. Like a man who had heard the same lame joke many times, he kept a poker face. Methodically, he kept asking me questions and then waited for me to make the Psi-control Switch's gauge monitor the temperature changes.

"Can you do it from that position, over there? Can you make it go down? Can you do it from behind the door? Can you go outside and down to the end of the block and make it work?" All of these attempts had the same successful outcome.

It was nearly noon when I reentered Jay's office just as he was asking Julio, "What kind of degree changes are we looking at?"

"When I calculate it," Julio replied, "Ira clocks out at about three-tenths of a degree Fahrenheit."

"My girlfriend, Maureen, can make it go even higher than that," I interjected.

Jay still showed little reaction.

Finally, I said, "Okay, Jay, what do you think?"

"I think it is time for lunch" he replied, drolly. And with that the demonstration was over.

With a successful demonstration behind us, I drove Julio and the Psi-control Switch back home, passing the apple and pear orchards that encircled the little town of Mapleton.

As I drove, Julio was the first to speak, asking, "Hey, daddy-cakes, how long until you get the patent?"

"Don't know, babycakes," I replied. "It's a waiting game now. By the way, what was the deal when he wanted me to leave the room?"

"Oh, that," Julio smiled. "Jay didn't want me to laugh at you if it didn't work. Guess he didn't want to embarrass you."

"Yeah, right," I replied, as we both broke into a laugh. My chuckles subsiding, I asked, "Do ya think he gets it?"

"'Don't know," Julio responded. "Maybe intellectually, but I didn't see much of a reaction on his face."

"Yeah," I said, "that Jay is all business." I paused, and then somewhat changed topics. "You know, you haven't met Doctor Reiner yet, the physicist," I remarked, glancing at Julio.

"Don't know of Doctor Reiner," Julio said.

"Ya know," I said, "I'm hoping that when I do get the patent, she will be our research director. She's really accomplished in her field. You will certainly like her."

"Really? Sounds good, then," Julio responded, his interest piqued.

"Yeah," I continued, "She is unbelievably bright and a real pleasure to be around. She is one of the few people you can actually have a discussion with on the consciousness of stones."

"Stones?" Julio asked, while raising an eyebrow in my direction.

"Yeah," I responded, "you should see her resume. First she starts off in particle physics at Berkeley Lawrence Livermore, then moves onto women's studies, next consciousness studies, and finally parapsychology."

"Parapsychology?" Julio asked, with a mock curious smile upon his face as he was new to this field. "Isn't that the weird stuff that you see in the tabloids and...?"

"Come on," I interrupted, you were just in Jay's office when he asked 'So, is Ira going to use his parapsychological abilities to...'"

"But he didn't believe it anymore than I do. It's nothing more than fodder for the tabloids," Julio interjected.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I said, stopping his train of thought. "I know that you haven't really thought about it until just a few days ago when I gave you that demonstration and it blew your mind. Your background is physics, chemistry, and biology, but I doubt that you ever read a story about psychic abilities in the Enquirer... you know, the tabloid story right next to the two-headed alien from Venus... did you?"

"No, not a one," Julio stated, with a broad grin.

"But this is what I presented today to Jay while you explained the technical issues of the thermistor to him. This is exactly what Psi is about; it is about parapsychology. So, welcome to the club!"

"And your Dr. Reiner...?" Julio reminded me.

"Oh, yeah. Look, Julio, she once had a pretty bad reaction to paranormal ideas just like you and Jay do," I commented.

"Uh-huh...," Julio responded, coaxing me on.

"Well," I continued, "the way Doctor Reiner relayed it to me, the story is that she was introduced to this guy who claimed that he could bend spoons with his mind. So she asked him to demonstrate that, and of course the spoon bent. And then she asked him if she could try it. So he gave her a new spoon, and of course nothing happened. Then he took her index finger, placed it about half an inch above the handle of the spoon, and then placed his finger on top of hers." Their hands hovered over the spoon, with his finger on top of hers, waving back and forth over the spoon several times when—Voila!—the spoon did a doublegainer-backflip of a bend. She told me she looked at the spoon and then handed it back to the guy saying, 'Sorry, but that doesn't exist in my universe.' After that, she refused to even think about it for six months."

"Wow!" Julio exclaimed, fascinated by the story "That's pretty neat!"

With some encouragement in my heart, we cruised back into town.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ETCHED IN MY MIND

"You will have to cross that line..."

I had the day off, and Maureen did not have to go into work until later, so we spent a leisurely morning together. Brunch was at a crepe restaurant, calm and relaxing. We chatted, enjoying each other's company, discussing friends, events, and the beauty of the day.

After an early brunch, we took a trip to Rose Park where we took a long, meditative walk and discussed our work at the hospital. Maureen had a patient, a young boy, whom she had grown quite fond of. He had cystic fibrosis and was at an age that such patients usually did not live beyond. Maureen was heartbroken over this, and although I tried to console her, it seemed as though my words were ineffective. I, on the other hand, was having my technician staff reduced at the pharmacy and found myself doing more and more with less and less help. We discussed the need to find new careers, deciding that it was best to explore our options at the university.

After our walk, we stopped in at a favorite coffee shop where we continued to share our thoughts, savoring the morning together. Contemplating new careers at the university waned as our topic of conversation turned toward the children, Matt and Jenna. They were doing well in school, and they still enjoyed playing with the color wheel device we had built out of their old toys. Maureen suggested it might be nice to go to dinner and a movie sometime soon, some Saturday evening when the children were staying with their father, and I agreed—it was not something our busy lives usually afforded us. I promised to take a look at the leaky faucet in the kitchen the next time I was over, and we both promised to share another intimate meditation session together soon. Looking at her watch, Maureen suddenly realized it was getting late, and she wanted to be at the hospital on time. With her final sip of coffee, I kissed Maureen goodbye, wishing her a good day at work.

I had the day off which afforded me a most enjoyable morning. I started toward home, committed to a newfound sense of leading a normal and conventional life. Yes, there were problems to overcome and events to plan for into the future, but this is, of course, what most average people go through. This change toward the average, toward normalcy, that I felt growing inside of me was a barometer, to some extent, of the transformative effect that Maureen had upon me. I was beginning to enjoy life in the middle of the road. Rhetorically speaking, it felt as though hitch hiking my whole adult life had finally brought me to my final destination—and I was more than happy to have arrived there.

There are events in life that we have vivid memories of. Strong, and cemented into our inner psyche, they remain indelible until death wipes them clean... assuming that death does wipe them clean. Maybe it is the emotional pain of seeing your ex-lover walking hand in hand with your best friend, or a child slapped in the face by a parent—you can hold such an image forever. For example, I have heard of those who had unwittingly walked in on their parents having sex, or of soldiers who had just returned from combat reliving battle scenes over and over—all such cases leave indelible marks on the memory and the mind's eye. For better or for worse, the images remain. We all have such images etched into our minds, and they stand front and center before all other memories. For me, the etched-in-stone image was the expression on Ryan's face that morning as I walked into my room.

He was on the phone, and I heard him say, as I sat down on the edge of my bed, "Patch me through to Erika." He was focused and profoundly serious, so much so that he paid no attention to me. Like an animal on the prowl, he waited for the just right moment... then pounced.

"Erika," he said, suddenly, "I want you to listen to this." Unexpectedly, Ryan was interrupted by a third party on the same phone line. Ryan acknowledged the third party, "President Reagan—." I sat listening to Ryan's side of the conversation, spellbound. Ryan listened on the phone for a short time as the president spoke before firmly saying, "No, we're not going to do that... Erika, are you still there?... good, I want you to remove all of our oil tankers from those sectors and send up our jets." Then, with a forceful outburst, he shouted, "Mister President, who's that talking behind you?... Yeah, well put him on the phone, now! "

There was a bit of a pause, and I remember watching the intensity in Ryan's eyes grow, the age lines cut deeper into his face as he waited for the unseen person to be put on the phone. A shiver ran down my spine.

A moment later, Ryan spoke clearly and firmly, "Senator, we know all about that apartment you have in Manhattan, and we also know about what you keep in that closet." There was a pregnant pause as reality must have begun to set in on the other end of the phone. After a moment, Ryan continued, "I don't think your wife wants to find out about that closet, does she? After another pause, Ryan said, "That's right." Finally, he signed off, "Erika, I'll talk to you later." With that he hung up the phone and stood ominously still for a moment, his expression half annoyed and half triumphant. At last, turning to me, he locked my eyes with an icy stare and said with a low growl, "That dumb fuck." Abruptly, he retired to his room, closing the door behind him.

I never asked him what it was about—but my life had just rotated about an axis, and normalcy would have to wait.

Throughout this time with Ryan, I was fortunate to have had many ongoing meditational experiences. Some were small and fleeting; others were big and profound. There were those few meditation sessions that were unusual, defying description, and seemingly unclassifiable. But most of my meditations were classic and true to text, and that is a testimony to the underlying commonality of the human experience: we are not really that much different from one another after all. Although not mandatory for spiritual ascension, these meditation experiences are beautiful and awe-inspiring, bringing a sense of hope and motivation to the aspirant along life's journey. That being said, there were also the long sessions of sitting in the blackness, lost in a sea of nothingness—a great void that must be crossed with little to hold onto except faith and hope. One keeps their mind singularly focused for hours on end while sitting in meditation. Here the mind rebels as the ego tries to escape, knowing that you have come to ultimately destroy it.

It was during one of these particular meditations when I noticed a dark band of blue light at the base of my meditational field—a line in the sand, if you will. I did not know what it was, not really; yet, I had the intuitive sense it had to be crossed. But, despite trying my best, I could not cross it. Time and again it appeared before me until it became a constant, impassable boundary. Try as I might, it remained a conundrum that vexed me daily.

Like most of those on a mystical path, I had an insatiable appetite at that time in my nascent years for spiritual literature. Seemingly by chance—yet, is anything truly by chance?—I stumbled upon the story of Nagalena in a library of East Indian spiritual writings. Paraphrased, it goes something like this: "Once there was a student of a great master who came across a blue line while in meditation. Trying his best, he still could not cross this line. Exasperated, he approached his master invoking his help. The master explained, "The line is your ego. You will have to cross that line and destroy your limited sense of identity if you want to experience the knowledge of what is on the other side. In India we give candies to children bribing them so they will go to school. You are not a child anymore." Like the modern-day Nike slogan, "Just do it!" I got the timeless message and traversed the line.

As it is above, so is it below, in the worldly realms. Even among the secular, there is that line in our minds where we shut down and turn away in disbelief, not being able to go any further. Can there really be the likes of a Ryan Moran in this world? We become incapable of crossing that daunting line. Our egos tell us who we are and who others are; our egos limit our range of experiences, blocking us from knowing the unimaginable on the other side of our self-constructed barrier's line. We should not need to be bribed, as children are, to go beyond easy, normal, everyday experiences in order to learn, take on new challenges, expand our horizons, and invite new meaning into our lives. We are not children anymore.

Ultimately, I would have twenty-five years to learn the full story of Ryan Moran. It would prove to be a slow and evolving process.

How many hands have you shaken? How many eyes have you gazed into? Count the many hearts and minds you ever knew. Although it may seem like a lot, it is miniscule compared to the immense population of our world. Taken in this context, to beat the statistical odds and encounter an outlier, someone who is an anomaly from all those billions of people we collectively call humanity— now, that is truly remarkable. Yet two such outliers—Ryan and I— were now bound, and our potential would synergistically become greater than the sum of our two individual selves. What roguish fun this would bring to the universe! But then again... we did meet under the snake.

Normalcy would have to wait.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SNAPSHOTS

"Erika was correct that I would never understand Ryan without knowing his past."

I will somewhat side-step the issue of Ryan's ancestral lineage because I do not have all of the details in this matter. Ryan went by the surname Moran—as did his parents, John and Pat Moran—but Ryan was actually an O'Connell. His real name suited him—the meaning of Ryan is "king" and the meaning of O'Connell is "strong as a wolf." The O'Connells were among the Irish who immigrated to America with the Kennedys, and they settled in the South, later moving northward to cities like Boston and New York. His lineage is about as clear to me as Mulligan Stew. I have the notion, from remembering bits and pieces of our earliest conversations that maybe Ryan's real father died in the war (whereupon Ryan was taken in by the Morans), and I believe that he was somehow related to W. J. "Jack" Frye who, with Paul E. Richter and Walter A. Hamilton, set up Trans World Airlines. Howard Hughes, the renowned American aviator and philanthropist, would eventually acquire and expand this airline, becoming a good friend of Pat and John Moran in the process. Sadly, I am not sure at all who Ryan's biological mother really was. Because I cannot clearly recall all the details of what Ryan told me about his lineage, I will not smudge the ink any further but will defer to the genealogists.

I know little about Ryan's childhood and teenage years, but he did have friendships with the Jewish boys from across the street and absorbed "the culture." He would always say to me, "Oye! A Jew and an Irishman—what a team!" One of his sisters, during their younger years, would call him Sheldon as a joke. She would yell down the supermarket aisles or in other public places, "Sheldon! Oye, Sheldon! It's time to go home!" so that everyone would think he was Jewish. In our later years together, we would greet each other with a drawling "Oye——!" and call each other "Sheldon" as a term of endearment. No, there is no secret handshake that Jews use to recognize each other. Rather, one simply asks someone he meets if he is a member of the "tribe." If he responds, "Why? Are my horns showing?" then you know he is Jewish and is in on the joke—a misconception from the 16th century that all Jews had horns on their heads! Go figure! But I digress. The point is that Ryan was so acculturated that I eventually made him an honorary member of the tribe, horns and all.

His family lived in an upscale home in a posh suburb of New York City. Emotionally abused by his parents, John and Pat, when they drank, Ryan would seek emotional comfort from their black maid, Vanessa, and her husband, Jared, who cleaned and maintained their house. On occasion, Ryan would express to me that he felt Vanessa to be his true mother. Throughout my friendship with Ryan, I heard the warm and loving telephone conversations that he had with Vanessa and Jared as they now lived on his offshore ranch where Ryan's corporate headquarters were located. I am certain this set the stage for his long and fond relationship with his partner at the CIA who was black. He went by the initials T.P. which stood for "tooth pick" because he always had one in his mouth that he would chew. Although I never knew T.P.'s real name, Ryan saw him as a fierce warrior and had great respect for the man.

At sixteen, Ryan entered Princeton University in New Jersey where he majored in history. Shortly after enrolling there, one of his professors tapped him into the CIA. From this point onward, his education would be controlled by the agency.

Oddly enough, I learned of these years not only from Ryan's own verbal accounts but, believe it or not, from movies made about his life. Erika, who now stewards his offshore concern, determined that my relationship with Ryan was too asymmetrical, that I needed to learn and understand more of his past. After all, I had been quite open with Ryan about my past throughout our many years of friendship. Nonetheless, Erika's request to have Ryan bring me up to speed on the whole of his past life was a tall order as my mind sought to reject the sheer scale and scope of the task. Although, not a bitter pill by any means, it was huge, and given the scope of Ryan's past life and accomplishments, one had to be careful not to choke if swallowing it whole.

Definitely, Ryan and I were true friends, but, that said, our relationship was not always harmonious. I could not understand where he was coming from at times, because he had a different perspective than I did. I always felt like I was standing at a train station, looking down the tracks, waiting, and straining my eyes to see when the train would, if ever, finally arrive. Ryan, on the other hand, would somehow always be standing on a clock tower above the train station watching the locomotive's arrival as it steamed up to its platform, before I could even glimpse it approaching. When there was a conflict between us, we would argue, shout, and even get into physical fights. No, these arguments and tussles were not over lofty ideals, philosophy, or intellectual matters—on most of such matters, we saw eye to eye. Rather, it was the mundane issues, such as who was to take out the garbage, sweep the floor, or clean the toilet that produced our biggest arguments. These fights were often horseplay, brotherly in nature, with body shots being traded back and forth. One thing for certain, I would not want to meet Ryan in a real fight. We usually ended up wrestling and laughing on the floor together, and I can only imagine what Erika must have thought when she read about these events in her security reports.

Yes, there were always the ubiquitous security reports. In the earlier days of my friendship with Ryan, these were hand written by the agents that Erika had about us for protection. The first report that I encountered was only a few pages long and documented a meeting that I had with one of Ryan's girlfriends. With a scowl on his face, Ryan threw it down before me and asked me to explain what it was all about. This situation involved a new girlfriend that he had met at La Champagne's bar about a week earlier.

I had gone to the bar one afternoon hoping to find Ryan when I encountered several of his friends from the university's psychology department sitting around a table. When I asked them about Ryan, they all gave a hearty laugh and explained to me that he had just left with a woman. One of them, the professor whom I had previously met on his fortieth birthday, said that he had bet Ryan that he could not bed the very next woman who would enter the bar. Ryan took him up on the challenge. When she entered and sat at the bar stools, Ryan approached her and entered into a conversation for about an hour. With a smile on his face and a last look towards their table, as it was described to me, they had just left when I entered. With another round of excited laughter, his friends debated whether or not he would win the bet. Well...he did and ended up staying at her house for the next week. During the course of this time I had met her on two occasions, introduced to her by Ryan. At the end of the week I received a frantic phone call from her. She said that she was having problems with him and wanted to meet me at one of the local restaurants which I agreed to do. When we met she told me in her still frantic state that Ryan was calling her dysfunctional and a drunk, and that he wanted her to change. I quickly discerned that she was not the type of person who could weather Ryan's intensity, knowing firsthand, from my own experiences, how difficult this could be. I suggested to her that if she did not feel comfortable in the relationship then she should consider not being in it. She thanked me for the advice, and we went our separate ways.

Now, here I was, the next day, thumbing through the security report which Ryan had thrown at me that documented quite accurately the conversation that I'd had with her. It was an uncomfortable experience; when Ryan learned that I had gotten between him and his new girlfriend, he was furious. He scolded me for getting into his personal affairs and told me never to do it again. I quickly learned to mostly keep my mouth shut and to modulate my words whenever talking about Ryan.

It is important to note that, for security reasons, I have never talked to or even seen Erika—she remains somewhat of an enigma to me. Over the years, Ryan was the only conduit that I had to her. When calling Erika on the phone, he would sometimes share bits of their conversations with me. During these moments of leisure, he would cover up the mouth piece of the phone and, with a joyful expression on his face, he would say to me in a hushed voice, "She's on the boat in the Mediterranean," or something equally exciting and intriguing. While still looking at me jubilantly, he would then say in a louder voice to her, "Oh, you just finished reading the Bible, and you're having breakfast," or some narration that was equally mundane. Again, he would cover the mouthpiece and whisper to me something like, "She's having cantaloupe and shrimp." I would sit on the edge of my bed at these times and listen with rapt attention. Sometimes Erika would say hello to me through Ryan, and I would reply in kind, through Ryan. Business matters were usually handled in private conversations between them, with Ryan later telling me "Erika wants" or "Erika says." By and large, the conversations that I was made privy to were of a social nature. Their talks sometimes would change from English to French because Erika found this to be a more romantic language. This French "pillow talk," as I would tease Ryan about it, would go on for quite a while until when Ryan was done speaking with Erika, he would ask to be patched through to speak to "the old German." This gentleman, a top veteran of Germany's spy agency, was a key player in Ryan's organization. Ryan would converse with him in German for some time until he would ask to be patched through to "the Russian," another veteran spy. In fluent Russian, they talked and joked before hanging up. How many languages Ryan spoke fluently, I do not know. Many, I would imagine. Given his age and the location of his childhood, in New York City's suburbia, it is safe to assume that he was also fluent in pig Latin. However, its value at the top of the world is still open to debate.

At a certain point in our relationship, Ryan informed me, "Erika wants you and me to watch movies together. She says she has plans for us." These were not just any movies but ones that were made about Ryan's life. The stories came out of his private journals, firsthand accounts, and case logs that the CIA kept. The movies were rated across various dimensions, including the accuracy of the story line and dialogue, by an internal department of Ryan's organization. One of the reasons Ryan's organization made these films was for a profit in the public sector through their communications division. All told, his companies controlled, and still control, much of the media industry throughout the world. Ryan explained to me that sometimes a real-life storyline, such as how he operated when he used to work for the CIA, would be adapted to meet the needs of the movie industry. For example, maybe the movie would portray that Ryan was after a large sum of money when, in actuality, it was a piece of microfilm. On occasion, they would move a storyline into the past, say, into the days of the Wild West to meet the public's appetite for Westerns. Sometimes, a part of his story would be embedded into another larger story if it fit with his organization's marketing strategies, and so on. On one occasion, a movie even portrayed him in a role reversal as an inside joke—the screen actress played Ryan's part and the male actor played the female role. Crazy yes, but for those of us in the know, it was hilarious. Sometimes crazy works.

Ryan and I would go to the video store together where he made the selections based upon Erika's shopping list. Back at home, he would sit on his couch and I would sit on the love seat as we watched the movies together. If he wanted to make a point, he would hit the rewind or pause button on the remote control and then explain to me what had really happened or why he behaved a certain way and made the particular choices that he did. The same held true if I had a question or needed to clarify a scene; I would ask Ryan to hit the pause button or rewind the film. It was always interesting to watch his face as he relived his past. Sitting quietly, with a pensive, dreamlike expression, he took long drags on his cigarette and drank from his ever present iced tea, vigilantly keeping his emotions in check. At times, he would stop the films to make himself a snack of cut ham and Swiss cheese with a side of mustard, which he ate with his fingers. Then, after a run to the restroom, he would resume where he had left off. There were no false airs or pretenses with Ryan. This is how he was. I, for the most part, was the more mischievous monkey of us two. If we came to a slow part in the movie, I would tease him saying things like, "You need to cut your toe nails or you'll end up like Howard Hughes, bizarre and eccentric." Breaking his attention from the film he would jokingly reply, "Hey, I feel like I'm already there," or some such quip. Such was our life together.

Erika was correct that I would never understand Ryan without knowing his past. There were a multitude of films of varied subject matter that we watched together. Most were raw-nerved and quick-paced action adventures that portrayed his earlier life (before we met), making them a producer's dream for this genre. With action at the core, romance, intrigue, and comedy all played into the ultimate mix of these movies. But it became quite clear that above all else, Ryan was a gun fighter—the best there ever was. Whether it was in a military jet, in a thoughtful argument in a court of law, or an emotional unraveling of a psychological crisis, it was at the end of the barrel of a gun that Ryan did his best work. When a hero was in need, he was there. When all hope was lost and humanity cried out for justice, it was Ryan, the lone man venturing into extreme danger to set things straight. Through smoke and explosions, as bullets whizzed by and death was certain, there was only one man still standing at the end. He was the Great and Mighty Ryan Moran.

Many times, merely watching the films was emotionally gut-wrenching for me—it was even more upsetting to imagine Ryan actually living the life that these movies depicted. As these films portray, he continually placed his life on the line for what is right.

I do not recall all of the films' names, but some that I remember include The Evil That Men Do, Three Days of The Condor, Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, Sudden Impact, Top Gun, and Forty Eight Hours. A movie about his family's background was The Formula, a 1980s film about the final days of WWII that obviously took place before the establishment of Ryan's corporate empire.

Ryan Moran was a quick study, moving up through the ranks of the CIA with a meteoric ascent. A man of special talents, the government gave him training commensurate with his abilities. Soon, he became a popular item in the Kennedy administration. Ryan talked fondly of Jack Kennedy, expressing to me that their relationship was mutually friendly, with the president taking him in under his political wing. Ryan would talk about these bygone days in terms of his innate, raw talent. For example, when deployed on a special mission, he would rip up the official, strategic plan and, instead, proceed on his gut feelings to get the job done. Strategizing using his intellect, intuition, and logic, he shot up like a roman candle, bursting onto the scene. His superiors who reviewed him were duly impressed. He was a prodigy.

Ryan Moran's flying skills were legendary. John, his father, had taught him to fly at an early age. During our initial years together, it wasn't uncommon for him to say, "Okay, everybody, up and to the right ten thousand feet," if things in general were not going well. Ryan was thirteen years old when Howard Hughes took him up in a small single-engine plane, covered up all of the instruments with cardboard, then said, "Okay, now fly the plane." He was a natural, flying by the seat of his pants. Twice, Ryan was shot down over Vietnam, and once he was captured until he was finally extracted by American forces. He often relayed a humorous story of flying for TWA out of JFK International Airport when he was a student at Columbia University. It was an overnight cargo flight of caged research monkeys. Unfortunately, someone did not lock the cages well enough, so when the plane landed, hundreds of screaming monkeys were running loose in the cargo bay. No monkeying around, it must have been quite a sight.

On a more serious note, Ryan once told me of a secret mission he undertook that involved taking out a large military installation in a country whose identity was never to be disclosed. He knew that the target country's air force had studied and knew our flying formations and flying tactics. Intuitively, he instructed his ground crew to mount two of his missiles so that they would shoot out from both sides of his jet rather than shooting forward from the front of the jet. They refused and contacted an air force general who came down to investigate. He countermanded the order until Ryan brazenly told him, "Then, you fly the fucking mission!"

The general—having to deal with this brash, young upstart of a pilot who was sent down by the CIA—relented, and the missiles, engineered with some adaptive hardware, were mounted sideways on the jet. With the fleet of military aircraft airborne, and Ryan's jet in the lead position, they engaged the enemy employing a strategic triangular formation. This was what the enemy expected. Then, at the last moment, as the enemy jets swooped in to attack, Ryan fired both missiles from each side of the aircraft. This momentarily stunned the enemy and confounded the view on their radar system so that Ryan and his formation were able to get through their defense and destroy the installation. They sustained only one casualty, and that was because a pilot disobeyed one of his orders on the way back. He broke formation to fight the enemy and was the only jet to be shot down. By all accounts, this was miraculous.

Ryan Moran's degrees and specialized training were numerous—perhaps as numerous as the languages he so fluently spoke. His major degrees included a Masters of Finance from Harvard, a law degree from The University of Virginia where he specialized in constitutional law, and a medical degree with a residency in Psychiatry. (Because Ryan was tapped into the CIA shortly after he arrived at Princeton, he did not complete his History degree there.) When he left the CIA over a dispute, these degrees were held as "hostages." They were part of the many bargaining chips that the agency used as leverage to pressure him into doing what he thought was wrong. When he refused, they would not release his records. Consequently, he could not use these degrees to earn a living in any normal fashion.

I am not a spy or a secret agent. I have never worked for the CIA or Ryan's organization—at least I can state that I have never received a paycheck from either organization. I am merely a hitchhiker. When I first met Ryan in Mapleton I did not know how long he had been there and I had never asked. Maybe he lived in Mapleton only a year or two before me, I would guess, but then this is only conjecture. Why he apparently brought no money with him—or else lost it all by the time I met him—I also do not know. I was aware that he was very sensitive to Erika's need to not disturb the Trust that he had set up. Maybe his lack of available funds was related to that.

Aside from no money, Ryan had no hard copies of his college diplomas. "Surely, he could get copies of his own diplomas, or at least transcripts from the university," people have told me. For any ordinary graduate, it is indeed possible, certainly, but... could Ryan? Because the CIA had held proof of Ryan's degrees as "hostages," it would be quite a feat to make the CIA do a one-eighty. With all that was at stake, and with the CIA now being one of his clients, would he want to upset the applecart at this point? Would he want to unravel much of what was already accomplished over the hard copies of his diplomas? I have little knowledge as to how things are accomplished in the CIA. I do know that the CIA has special powers regarding covert and paramilitary operations. The director of the CIA can spend funds allocated to the department without accounting for them, and the size of the agency's staff is secret. Furthermore, because their employees are exempt from civil service, the CIA has a greater level of control over them than other governmental agencies or organizations have over their employees. I would suspect that they have a very sophisticated contract that one must sign before joining that organization. With the help of top-level university officials in their pockets, as well as having control of university computer system, I can only imagine that they had enough control to block the release of Ryan's degrees. Once, I had read an article in the Mapleton newspaper that the president of the university was previously a high-ranking member of the CIA. Did that have something to do with this? Was there a link? I do not know, and I will not pretend to know the answers to such questions that I did not ask Ryan.

I spent many hours as a student and recipient of Ryan's psychiatric tutelage regarding security issues. There were security events—sometimes real, and sometimes false alarms—that we would have to face together in an unknown capacity. He wanted to make me more functional in this regard if we were to be partners. His sculpting and molding of my mind would sometimes continue for days on end. This training revolved around two main goals. The first goal was to train me to get in touch with my emotions. Ryan taught me this by having me visualize and distinctly compartmentalize my emotions so that I was sure of what I was feeling. One technique he employed was to describe to me how emotions were like different jams that I needed to label. Instead of strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, and peach, there was anger, rage, depression, frustration, joy, elation, calm, and the like, each of which I needed to distinguish and hypothetically label within myself. Only by being able to clearly identify emotions within ourselves, and then clearly communicate this to each other would we be able to have an open channel of communication. The second goal that we focused on concerned honesty. Unless we both held ourselves to a rigorous standard of honesty, especially regarding our emotions, we would have no clarity, and it was clarity in all matters that he strived for. It was this clarity, Ryan told me, that kept him alive in many situations where others would fail, and die. It was this rigorous emotional honesty with each other that created a clarity within which we were able to work together effectively. I can testify that I am not the same person as when we had first met, now that I am capable of being more genuinely honest about my emotions, both to myself and toward others.

Another aspect of our security had to do with a template that allowed us to put this emotional honesty—this psychological training for clarity—into a working model regarding how to act. Because of my lack of training in security matters, he chose a film as a template. The film that he chose was Patton, starring George C. Scott. This is a film about the career of General George S. Patton as World War II unfolded around him. The movie expresses his ideologies and views as to how and why he acted in certain ways during the war's battles. Ryan loved the movie, and I lost track of how many times we watched it together. The point is, when we were in certain situations, he would ask me if I remembered what Patton did as events unfolded or certain battles erupted. If I said yes, then he would say that we were going to use the same tactic in whatever situation we were in. He would then ask me for an emotional check to make sure that I was onboard before proceeding. This way, there was clarity for our coordinated actions. These psychological adaptations allowed me to work with Ryan's worldview, a view that he was well trained in and adept at. Because I was now in his world, I did what he said.

The government once had Ryan rated as the top psychiatrist in the world, based upon the speed that he processed patients out of locked-door facilities. Remarkably, this was in the days before the mainstream use of psychotherapeutic medications. Ryan saw himself living a very existential life. His focus was on the choices that he would make in the present or future. His existence was given to him, but it was his choices that gave him his freedom to act as he did, responsibly and courageously. He was a man who could set his own direction. His therapy for others was very much in the genre of Yalom, the existential psychotherapist. Irvin D. Yalom's principles operated on the belief that inner conflict within a person is due to that individual's confrontations with the givens of existence. These givens, as Yalom elucidates them, are: the inevitability of death, freedom and its attendant responsibilities, existential isolation, and meaninglessness. For Ryan, how we made our choices regarding these four existential principles determined our ultimate mental health.

Ryan would take me about town with him as he plied this craft, this existentialist psychotherapy. I was his student in tow. He taught me many of his skills, and though I reached a certain level of proficiency, I could not come close to his level of mastery. I rarely use these skills now. To do this means depersonalizing myself and taking on a lot of Ryan's personality traits. This is not a good fit for my inner psyche, my innate sense of self. Like being lost in a maze on an alien planet, doing so is not something that I relish.

My favorite story that Ryan would tell about his counseling patients dealt with a man who was depressed and wanted to kill himself. Ryan asked him how he planned to accomplish this. The man told him that he was going to use a gun. What the man did not know was that Ryan had a firecracker in his top desk drawer. Ryan deftly pulled the firecracker out of the drawer, lit it, unseen, in his lap—pretending to fumble with an errant cigarette he had purposely dropped as a decoy—and then tossed the firecracker under the desk. With a loud bang, the blast went off under the man's chair, scaring the hell out of him. Ryan used the man's utter panic as leverage, demanding in a loud voice, "Is that what you want to do?! Well, is it?! Because that's what a gun sounds like when it goes off!" The man was so shocked by the incident that he made a full recovery.

Through learning about Ryan's early life from his accounts, other sources, and the movies which Erika all but ordered us to watch, I grew immeasurably in my admiration and affection for the man who by now had become my best friend, a brotherly friend. I am still in awe of his rising up from being reared in a household of alcoholism and frequent emotional abuse, to overcoming his own alcoholism and accomplishing so much by an early age. His multiple degrees, his swift ascension within the CIA, and his tremendous innate gifts, in light of his genuinely humble character, gave one pause. In my book, Ryan O'Connell Moran was indeed king and strong as a wolf.
CHAPTER NINETEEN: CATHOLIC IRISH ALCOHOLICS

"We are the most powerful."

Ryan rose rapidly in the ranks of the CIA to a point that I will call a nexus position. This central role involved reviewing critical information, facts, strategies, and tactics from around the world. Here, with his great memory and adroit analytical skills, he began to put bits of the compartmentalized puzzle together, and in the process, unraveled a hidden secret. Certain members of the power elite, those at the top of the agency, had set up their own secret agency within the CIA. In a way that is similar to a virus overtaking a cell's control systems, they had usurped the power and control of the agency. They were doing things their way. The democratic ideals and principals of control by which the CIA was supposed to operate were being grossly violated by this group. Not liking what he saw, Ryan revolted against it—his exposure of this group nearly costing him his life. But by now, he had many of their secrets in his possession. As a form of insurance, he had these secrets within the CIA distributed to responsible people with power at the agency and around the world, such that, upon his death, this information would be released, causing the downfall of those in charge. This effectively would take down this agency within an agency. Heads at the CIA would literally roll with an internal war ensuing. They were trapped in their own game, hoisted by their own petard—to state it plainly, blown up by their own bombs.

Seeing his opportunity, Ryan then organized the many Allied and Axis agents from around the world, those who had been in waiting for all those years since World War II. By congealing these diverse international pockets of likeminded agents into one organization, their powers synergistically multiplied. He moved them offshore and fashioned an international agency of world-wide intent, not just of their own individual countries' needs, but for the needs of the world. Their intention was to bring about a new world order for cooperation on a global level, not just at the level of the individual nation states. Only by doing this could they meet their stated goal of preventing the next world war. With the old order of nationalistic ideologies dying both within the CIA and within other countries' agencies, he pried the remnants of control from their hands. The rule of the nation-states would be no more.

Over future years of living and working together, more would be revealed until I had a fully coherent picture as to exactly who Ryan was and what his role was in the world order. Like other security agencies around the world, the CIA became merely a client of Ryan's organization. England's M16, Russia's KGB, Israel's Mossad, and all other such agencies from around the world were clients under Ryan's umbrella organization. Just as other countries' security agencies contracted out with private companies, the CIA contracted with Ryan's organization as a client company. Expensive, complex, and secretive projects that countries either could not perform or did not want to perform were contracted out to Ryan's organization.

It is important to note that there is a critical fact of difference here that needs explanation so that the size and scope of Ryan's organization is not misconstrued. Ryan's organization knows what is happening inside the individual spy agencies of the world; spy agencies, on the other hand, do not know what is happening inside Ryan's organization. Hence, there is, so to speak, a protective, big black wall—an impenetrable one-way barrier fencing off Ryan's organization from the outside world.

Yes, there are satellites in space, supercomputers, surveillance electronics, and similar technologies which countries use. But it is Ryan's organization that they ultimately contract with to produce and maintain these systems. Have you ever thought about it? What is the locus of their ultimate control? With the multitude of computerized, technical components manufactured in a myriad of countries around the globe, whose hand guides this process? This dominance and control over manufactured intelligence materials and resources gave Ryan substantial influence and control over the intelligence communities worldwide, especially over his alma mater, the CIA.

This came to light when I had asked Ryan if the president of the United States knew of his organization. He responded, "They know we are there, but they are not sure what to make of it." And when I had next asked Ryan about his own side, his own allegiance when he contracted with the CIA, he merely stated, "We are the most powerful," and left it at that.

I, too, decided to leave it at that, at least for now... except for one last question. "Lucrative?" I asked, with an impish smile.

"What do you think?" was his enigmatic response.

I had to use discretion when it came to questioning Ryan. On occasion, when I overheard or glimpsed something of importance, I intuitively knew not to take it any further. Sometimes I wouldn't pursue what I heard or saw, because of a special look that he would give me, a look as if to say, "Mind your own business." Other times, it was just common sense. On occasion, he would explain things to me at a later date, after some appropriate time had passed. Still, there were times when I would probe the boundaries, looking for more immediate answers. He would ask me why I needed to know the information, and if I answered that I was just curious, he would tell me, "Curiosity is self serving," and then add, "Besides you don't need to know about that." Once, when I asked him about Lee Harvey Oswald and the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, his verbatim reply was, "We know who they were and we took care of them." Obviously, the Warren Commission was not as forthcoming with the truth as they had led us to believe. Ryan's words implied that Oswald did not work alone. I knew not to ask him about alien beings at Roswell. And, certainly, it would have been impolite to ask how many people he had killed. Even secret agents have rules of etiquette.

Ryan's offshore enterprise originally gained most of its power through the manipulation of the world's oil supplies. His grandfather was a businessman who possessed great wealth in oil and other natural resources. Although Ryan never told me directly, I assume that his grandfather was part of the original organization for the offshore venture. Even giants can get their start by standing on the shoulders of other giants; and so, in this regard I presume Ryan got his start from his grandfather's support. They each did exceedingly well and were able to turn the world's oil spigots off and on at will to aid their ventures. Once, I was able to meet and talk with one of Ryan's offshore oil tanker pilots who was also sent to Mapleton for rehabilitation due to alcoholism. He was friendly with Ryan and they attended AA meetings together. Although tightlipped about most of Ryan's background, he did convey to me the broad control that Ryan's offshore interests had over the world's oil supply and how they manipulated it. His accounts dovetailed well with the stories that Ryan had originally told me. Furthermore, this oil tanker pilot and Erika had attended an extremely important meeting in the early development of the enterprise. This also confirmed the story that Ryan had relayed to me previously about that meeting. At the meeting, a strategic discussion took place regarding where the organization was headed. It was Ryan's strong contention, along with Erika's consent, that they needed to augment their core business with a new focus on information. Reasoning as a businessman, Ryan believed that they needed information more than anything else in order to make accurate and timely decisions. He was fond of saying, "If you don't know where you're going, you will end up somewhere else." With that decision enacted, they poured their resources into the formation and financing of organizations to meet this goal. This heralded in the information revolution that we see so much of today, and their organization controls it.

This organization—singularly founded by Ryan Moran— remains the largest and most powerful transnational corporation in the world. Although its membership numbers are relatively low compared to other organizations, the members are situated in strategic positions internationally and can leverage their gatekeeper status with powerful results, both economically and politically. They are well financed and their global businesses continue to expand. Because they originated from a multitude of secretive international intelligence agencies from around the world, and because they took their secrets of operations with them when they left to form their new organization, they were the most adept at operating in the covert spy arena. Now it is their former employers from nationalistic agencies and the CIA who contract out to them and their worldwide agency. This is, however, a one way street. No one gets over the "big, black wall." Yes, Erika was, when I first met Ryan, in charge of this powerful organization. But there was a catch. Based upon a clause in her contract, she would have to relinquish her role to Ryan if he chose at any time to return. Because Ryan's words and actions were rough and at times unforgiving, the prospect of him taking control again made them tremble. By default it also made him the most powerful man in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY: BROOKE'S LAW

"Some damn fool discovers something which either abolishes the system, or expands it beyond recognition."

It was the end of summer of '82 when I met Julio at the campus cafeteria. "Hey, honey pot. What's new?" I greeted him.

"Hey, Ira," he replied.

"So, what's up?" I asked.

"Let's go outside for a smoke," he said. I followed him out to a patio where he sat down on a picnic table and lit a cigarette. Looking at the ground, he let out the first long puff and said, "They found a spot on my lungs."

"What?!" I asked, surprised. "You've got to be kidding."

"No," he stated. "It's cancer."

My mind raced round and round searching for something to hold onto. It was one of those surreal instances in life when you really can't believe what you are hearing. Finally, harnessing my thoughts, I asked, "Can they do anything?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head. He took another long drag on the cigarette, exhaled and said, "It's too far gone." He stood up, looked me in the eyes, and, as if not to burden me, just shook my hand. "Goodbye, Ira," he said, quietly. Before I could utter another syllable, he quickly turned and walked away. My eyes welled as I watched him leave.

I never saw Julio again. He just vanished. It was as quick and simple as that. No one seemed to know what happened to him, not even his girlfriend. People who own cats know of this. With their fierce independence and just a flip of their tails, they say goodbye, never to return. You search everywhere for them but not wanting to burden you they just vanish. Years go by, but all you have is memories—it's as if you can still feel their fuzzy paws against your cheek, but they are gone. So it was with Julio; he simply disappeared, not wanting to burden anyone.

Several weeks later, patent attorney Jay D. Abrams forwarded a letter to me from the United States Patent and Trademark Office regarding the Psi-control Switch. With much anticipation, I quickly opened the letter and scanned its contents, noting that it was dated 09-09-82. The last line of the letter stated, "The examiner is unpersuaded. This decision is final." I was crushed and unprepared for the rejection. Like a kick in the gut, I felt dizzy, as if the wind had been kicked out of me. All those years of work, I mused. Maybe I was wrong....

There comes a time when you question yourself and your relationship to the universe. When the underpinnings of your basic assumptions break loose, you can seem to be very much alone. For some months, I floated, lost in a sea of self-loathing, trying to regain my bearing, nearly drowning in waves of doubt.

Ryan was understanding and said in a compassionate voice, "Well, I tried to tell you, but you didn't want to listen. I'm not blaming you. Just try not to be too harsh on yourself. Don't beat yourself up too badly over this. You'll grieve the loss for a while, and then you'll get over it and move on to something else." He pretty much left me alone after that so that I could work things out for myself. I licked my wounds as best I could while still feeling numb and hollow. Maybe I should move on to something new, I began to think, and leave this in my past.

Several months later, we were into the new year, 1983. I was sitting on my bed one morning, when Ryan handed me a sheet of paper and said, "Here, Erika wants you to have this."

"Erika?" I asked, my attention perked, knowing that this was very much out of the ordinary. I had never received anything from her before.

"What's this about?" I asked him.

"Read it," he replied.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXDATA SCRIPT: TO: IRA TELLER, ESQUIRE KEEP RYAN WITHIN BOUNDS OF JUST REASON ERIKA

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

THURSDAY, JANUARY

16

BROOKE'S LAW:

When a system becomes completely defined, some damn fool discovers something which either abolishes the system or expands it beyond recognition.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I started to read the note to myself then asked, Esquire?" "Uh-huh," Ryan replied, nodding.

Then I read aloud, "KEEP RYAN WITHIN BOUNDS OF JUST REASON." I looked up at Ryan. "Oh sure," I said with a small laugh. "My first mission from Erika, and she gives me an impossible one." "Yeah, yeah," Ryan replied, with a blend of sarcasm and a bemused smile, "keep reading." "What's this calendar thing about?" I asked him, pointing to the Thursday, January 16th date.

"That's from Erika's desk, you know, one of those daily calendar things."

I read the caption, "Brooke's Law" out loud then followed with its substance printed below the date, "When a system becomes completely defined, some damn fool discovers something which either abolishes the system or expands it beyond recognition." I pondered it a moment and then looked up at Ryan, puzzled. "I don't get it," I said.

"That's Erika's way of letting you know that your switch works," Ryan said.

"Huh?" I asked, searching his eyes for the meaning of what he had just said.

Then he reiterated his words slowly, in a louder and more deliberate voice, "Your switch works!"

I couldn't quite believe my ears, and so, I sat there dumbly, looking up at Ryan, utterly speechless. Someone proved that it works?!

"The research shows significance and you're the 'damn fool' who discovered it," Ryan continued, as if to drive the point home.

"Are you... serious?" I asked, trying to absorb the news.

"Look, after our meeting at La Champagne's, I didn't know if that thing worked or not, or if you were just crazy, so I asked Erika to do the research. She put tens of millions of dollars from my companies into it, and the research shows significance."

"Wow...!" I replied, dumbstruck. It all began to fit together. Tens of millions of dollars?! "That's... fantastic!" I uttered, feeling wholly beside myself with the news and Erika's stunning generosity to secretly invest that corporate money into researching the switch.

"Yeah, it's fantastic," Ryan agreed, and then grinned. "Well, how does it feel to be the boy genius?"

"Who me?" I asked.

"Yeah, you!" he said. "Look, you better take credit for something in your life, and this is it. You're going to be known as the father of Psi-controls. Now, how's that make you feel?"

"Well, that's great!" I finally beamed, as we both broke into laughter.

Immediately I thought of Julio; how thrilled he would have been to hear the news. Julio once had his initial doubts, so much so that he had not even bothered to hook up a light—but now, the Psi-control Switch worked and had the potential to light up the world. Julio's doubts had been dispelled, Ryan's reservations had been unfounded, and... Maureen—I could not wait to tell Maureen!

Ryan has had many medals pinned to his chest in secret ceremonies due to the sensitive nature of his work. This note, sent to me by Erika was my secret medal. I prized it more than any other material thing that I have ever received. Beyond a university diploma and a pharmacy license, it came from on high—it came from Erika. I treasured that sheet of paper more than words could ever express. Throughout my life, I was told I was "an anomaly" and "marched to a different drummer," but I could see things that others could not. And now I had Erika's affirmation, and with it I would take my victory lap.
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE: ERIKA

"... at the top of the world, there is always a huge price to pay."

Ryan now had a car of his own, so occasionally, he would invite me to dine out at an inexpensive restaurant like Angie's Joint. He seemed to enjoy the social ambiance of the surroundings while we discussed our business. On this particular winter evening, just weeks after receiving my calendar notification of Brooke's Law, Ryan thought it would be good to get a bite to eat and talk more about Erika's "thumbs up" on the Psi-control Switch and her consequent, proposed plans for me.

"Well," Ryan began, after the waitress took our orders, "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know yet," I replied. "It's a big decision."

"I have to tell Erika something," he responded, somewhat impatiently.

"Tell her I want to become a collectable," I answered.

"A 'collectable'?" he asked.

"Yeah... you know... because there aren't many Jews left in the world, I'm a rarity, correct?" I piped back.

"Uh-huh," he uttered, cautiously, not sure where I was going with this.

"Well, if I live long enough, I'll be like an antique. Someone will want to pay me good money just to keep me around the house," I grinned.

"Damn it," he replied, scowling, "Will you get serious for a change?"

Just then, several customers who knew Ryan entered the restaurant and started talking to him. This gave me some time to gather my thoughts. I sat mulling over what Ryan had conveyed to me earlier that week about one of the options Erika had suggested for me.

Erika wanted to place me somewhere within Ryan's vast corporate empire, but where? This would become a familiar theme for quite a few years with many different plans regarding where to place me. So far, she suggested that I go to one of their research islands to conduct scientific research and development on Psi technologies. I would join the other people already working there who helped Erika test the switch to confirm that it worked. Essentially, I would vanish, never to be seen again. The most likely ruse was that I would "die" in some unfortunate accident, my body, conveniently, never to be found. Sounding contrived, like a grade-B movie, it was, nonetheless, all too real. What about Maureen? What about my parents? I wondered. I would never see them again. They would be grieving... not realizing I was alive on an island somewhere. Still, on the plus side, I would be wealthy with a substantial nest egg. Further, I supposed that, like a bird, I could fly around the world traveling on vacations, albeit with a new identity, sort of like those in the witness protection program. But the truth of the matter was that the level of control and security about me would be horrendous. This would be a forever scenario. Continually watched and monitored, my spirit would be chaperoned without end. A bird in a gilded cage has luxury but not freedom. My feathers would be plucked; how would I now soar? I would feel owned and trapped, not free.

The group of Ryan's friends at Angie's Joint finally wandered off to their own table when our meals arrived. We chatted a bit about his friends who had stopped by our table as we began eating. After a while, when Ryan had finished his sandwich, he turned his attention back to me. "So...," he started in, after taking a drink from his iced tea, "what are you thinking?"

"Look, if I do that I will never be able to see my parents, friends, or guru again, right?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's right," he answered, as he caught the waitress's attention and ordered a second sandwich. Turning his attention back to me, he continued, "We can always get you another guru."

I frowned. "That's not the point. Give me some more time to think, okay?"

"Okay," he conceded, "but I have to tell Erika something."

It always came down to Erika. She and Ryan had been lovers when they were at school together training for the CIA. He told me she was quite attractive, but because of security issues he would divulge little else about her appearance. She either had a law degree, an MBA, or both, as I cannot recall exactly what Ryan had once said in that regard. But then again, it did not matter; she was in control. He would allow me only small glimpses of her through stories that epitomized the way she dealt with the world.

The first story Ryan had relayed to me was about the time when Erika had decided to leave the CIA and flew to meet Ryan offshore. The agency sent a jet to retrieve her, to bring her back stateside. Quality has an intrinsic value, and she was exceptionally valuable to the CIA; hence, they sent the jet to reclaim her. She met the jet on the runway, and when four male agents disembarked and got within distance of her, she pulled out a gun and ordered them to lay down their weapons. Then, still holding them at gunpoint, she had them strip down to their shorts, marched them back onto the jet, and told them never to return. Surely, she was brazen.

The second story that he relayed to me was about Erika's manner of doing business. When in negotiations with a worldwide organization, she would frequently greet their representatives at the front of her entourage. The twenty or so accountants and lawyers behind her would all be dressed in black suits, hold black briefcases, and wear black sunglasses. A phalanx of corporate power, this must have been an intimidating sight.

The dynamics of Ryan's and Erika's interpersonal interactions were of great interest to me. They say that opposites attract, and this adage was epitomized by Ryan and Erika. Erika was upper crust. She enjoyed dining with presidents, kings, queens, and dignitaries from around the world. Yachts and ballroom dance marked her social scene. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted little to do with this highfalutin' lifestyle. He felt more at home on the back of a horse. Driving bushels of apples to market or chopping wood made his day, hence the jeans and cowboy boots.

What transcended their vast differences was that they shared a particular key intellect and a common sense of purpose in life.

It was Ryan's talents and skills in business and law, combined with his existential sense of being that had first caught Erika's attention. Ryan knew who he was, his place in the universe, and what his role was to be. He courageously steered the direction of his own life on his own terms, and when he made a choice he took full responsibility for it. It was this clarity of choice and his honest responsibility for the associated outcomes that gave him his unmitigated freedom. But when he strayed off course from their shared values, goals, and purpose—as when he drank—then Erika had to rein him in, to redirect him, to corral him at the top of the world's power structure. Ryan, however, feared the pressures at the top would lead him to drink again, ultimately to drinking himself to death. Erika believed that Ryan was above this and that she would not let him meet such a miserable fate. She knew that the Great and Mighty Ryan Moran was indispensable and invaluable, not only to her, personally, but to the powers that be across the globe. She kept Ryan in line and, in some manner or other, at the top. Although his role would eventually be circumscribed regarding time constraints and where he lived, it was nevertheless within the power loop. And yet, in their personal relationship as in their business affairs, both called the shots, both arbitrated, both negotiated, both wheeled and dealt.

This reciprocity between the two of them played out over and over again, and I was often the unwitting bargaining chip caught at the very fulcrum of their balance of power. Erika would say, in attempts to lure Ryan back into the power structure, "We will do something for Ira if you do something for us." My friendship with Ryan was being used as an enticement to prod Ryan back into a role that he no longer wanted. Over the years, in this see-saw manner, many options for wealth, power, and prestige were presented to me. "Doing something for Ira" meant my being offered compensation for my life being taken over to suit their purposes—such as being sent to live in anonymity on a remote island for the rest of my days. Ryan, being an accomplished horse trader, was always willing to cut a deal with me, sealing my fate. But he had taught me well, and I always, ultimately, resisted the temptations just as Ryan resisted the temptations presented to him. His working definition of honesty in business, as in the rest of his life, was "I can do anything that I want, as long as I have the desire and I am willing to pay the price." Herein lies the dilemma: at the top of the world, there is always a huge price to pay. Yes, I could have had an opulent and luxurious life and a princely sum of money for this quid pro quo—but I had already seen what it had done to Ryan. What would be the real price that I would have to pay?

We all have our greedy side, a side that makes us want to grasp onto the wealth of the world—but at what price? In the jungle, a hunter half-buries a long-necked bottle, its mouth pointing skyward. The hunter then places candies into the bottle as bait and waits. When a greedy monkey comes along, it reaches in and grasps a fistful of candy but can't extract its paw. Neither shaking with fear nor screaming at the top of its lungs will unclench the monkey's fist. The hunter then sneaks up from behind, clubs the monkey on his head, and with a knife skins him bare. What a price that monkey has paid as the hunter first boils, then eats his flesh. Just like the hunter and the monkey, Erika and Ryan would try to entice me. But I was not about to let their enticements make a monkey out of me.

Some, I am sure, would have taken their deals, be it the research island or some other lucrative corporate contracts that would come my way. But when negotiating with Ryan and Erika, I learned not to make any more commitments. I had already made one, and it was weighty enough. The Psi-control Switch was as heavy a promise as I wanted to make in my life. "... then I will pay you whatever it takes to get the project done—as long as there is a payout for me at the end," I had told Ryan when we had met for the second time at La Champagne's bar. I had seen with my own eyes the fates of those unfortunates who failed. Once committed, there was no backing out. Remember, Ryan's organization has its rules and its own laws. These are not the laws of your land, the nation-state in which you live. Instead, they are the laws of their corporate command, regardless of the country where you live. When I entered into a deal on that fateful day in La Champagne's bar regarding commitment to the Psi-control Switch, the die was cast. When Ryan nodded his head to seal the deal, that transcended any law in any land. It was Ryan's law, and no inked signature was required. Control under Ryan's corporate authority was usually subtle, not overtly forceful, yet very effective. In the United States, maybe the control starts out with a notice from the IRS stating that there seem to be some irregularities in a past return. Next your supervisor at work just happened to be reviewing your employment application from years ago and now wants an explanation. Then your ex-wife suddenly has a list of new demands. The mortgage company just called leaving you a message stating they will be enacting a clause regarding your house that you do not understand. Slow and tormenting, the pressure to perform on your commitment is ratcheted up until if there was to be the taking of a life, it most likely would come by one's own hand. These are the rules that you would play by, not your rules—Ryan's rules. And Erika, being cut from the same cloth would be enforcing them. Now, knowing what would be at stake, would you really want to reach in like that monkey and grab the bait to satisfy your greed or your material insecurities?

Though tantalized by the prospect of wealth and power, I did not want to be made a monkey of—clubbed and skinned alive. What was my strategy for evading their constant offers to benefit from my Psi-control Switch and parapsychological powers? Clearly, I could not use a rational or logical argument; at that I would certainly fail—that ploy would be too obvious, too pedestrian for Ryan and Erika.

With their tight tautologies of logical truth, they would see right through it and effectively counter-argue using reciprocal logic and rationales. Instead, I would have to employ a thought process at which I was more skilled than either of them. If they were thinking hot then I needed to think cold as an opposite continuum design. If they intuitively were thinking of Mexican restaurants, then I would be a contrarian and think French restaurants. Simply put, sometimes crazy works. By going to my strength, this I would use as an altered form of reverse paradoxical intention which should provide just enough tilt to throw them off balance and let me slip by.

Ryan had taught me about paradoxical intentions, a counterintuitive process which is the deliberate practice of a neurotic habit or thought, undertaken in order to remove it. By doing this, one can identify and remove the neurosis, thereby removing the bad habit or thought. This, then, was my strategy: after refusing a deal, I would routinely make two requests, one impossible and one ludicrous, both patently absurd, both sounding habitually neurotic. That would end the matter. "Refuse—Impossible—Ludicrous—End" became my mantra—RILE, for short, which drove them crazy. It would indeed rile them. Every time that the subject came up of my being placed within Ryan's organization, I would habitually make myself look neurotic by repetitively presenting these RILE absurdities. This tack should make them change course, cease and desist from making me offers to send me off to oblivion.

My first request, in order to rebut one of their offers, specifically their plans to send me to the research island, was that I would be allowed to go on a mission with Ryan's partner T.P. (Tooth Pick). Ryan always spoke so highly of T.P as being both cunning and fierce. Even Erika's top lieutenant was unnerved by T.P.'s warrior nature. Next to being on a project with Ryan, to be on a mission with the likes of T.P. would be the ultimate testosterone-driven warfare dream. But I also knew that this could never happen because security concerns made it impractical. Indeed, Ryan would find this request utterly impossible.

The second request was that I would get a pair of Ryan's cowboy boots should he ever die before me. I perceived their value as literally trading millions of dollars—after all, Ryan, The Great and Mighty Ryan Moran, was the most powerful man in the world. But Ryan would find this blatantly absurd. This should then end the discussion.

Like Ryan, I knew that if I was corralled I would not last. But, as strange as it may seem these bizarre, dynamic years of ongoing bargaining and positioning seemed to work for my benefit— I would not have to make any additional commitments to Ryan or Erika for several years. At least for a while, the three of us continued our no-exit dance. Okay... I would like to flatter myself by thinking that I was actually smart enough to get my altered reverse paradoxical intentions strategy cleverly past Ryan and Erika. In reality, however, this was probably not the case. Erika most likely just tolerated my nonsense because Ryan and I were friends, bringing about emotional stability in his life. As for Ryan, well... I was his "Sheldon," and I will leave it at that.

But above all of this dancing around—these commitment and deal making propositions—at the very pinnacle of their relationship was Ryan's immutable respect for Erika and a bond that could not be broken. Of all the people whom Ryan had ever talked about, both high and low within their world power structures, it was Erika whom he respected the most.

Now, as Ryan and I sat in Angie's Joint, I had finally reached a decision. Ryan finished his second sandwich and called the waitress over to order his favorite dessert, a Tin Roof Sundae. As the waitress walked from our table, I finally said, "I can't do it."

"Why not?" he asked, with a dour tone.

"That's too much to ask of my parents," I responded, "Seriously, for them to go through that kind of grief when I'm not really dead is just too much to ask. And what about Maureen? What kind of grief do you think she would go through?"

"Is that what you want me to tell Erika?" he asked, with a serious gaze.

"Yes," I said, firmly knowing that they had my Psi-control project but I had not been paid out on it yet—it would take fair payment one day to compensate me, not lures of the sort Erika kept dangling before me; those were the seemingly easy ways out for me. Then, I added half-joking, yet half-seriously. "But remind her about my mission with T.P., and leave me your boots if you should die."

"Oh, yeah," he rolled his eyes, "here we go again with the boots and T.P. You're crazy okay, but like a fox." With a smile, he added, "I think I may have taught you too much."

It was almost a ritual for me: I mean, who could resist vanilla ice cream smothered with roasted, salty nuts and hot, chocolate-fudge syrup, all topped off with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry? I lay in wait for just the right moment. It came when he turned to flirt with one of the waitresses. Attacking in a stealth maneuver worthy of a ninja, I scooped up a heaping spoonful of the sundae, included the cherry, and savored it while he continued to flirt. When he finally turned back to the table, he exclaimed, "Hey! Who ate my sundae?!"

"Don't know," I replied, as always, with a straight face.

"Christ," he complained, half joking and half serious, "I can't take you anywhere."

It was a fond and familiar ritual at Angie's Joint, and I savored it each time as much as the spoonful of dessert.

After Ryan finished the sundae, he said, "I'm taking a trip to Middletown tonight. Want to go?"

"What's it about?" I asked.

He nodded his head to the right and squinted, a familiar expression meaning that he did not want to talk about it.

"Got it," I said. "Sure, I'll go."

Whenever we departed from these types of everyday places, such as Angie's Joint, I would wonder to myself, What would all these people think if they knew who he really was? For me, it was pure entertainment at its best. Even today, I still laugh inside just thinking about it. If people only knew!
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO: ROAD TRIP

"If you don't know where you're going, you will end up somewhere else."

That night, after our feast at Angie's Joint, I drove Ryan in his car to Middletown. I'd had enough money to buy him an older-model used car with a strong engine. There were strict financial controls regarding the trust, and any monies given to Ryan, and so I had purchased the car for him. It was his favorite color, black. In these earlier years I referred to Ryan's car as his "black mode." The organization's cars were black, the jets and helicopters were black, and Erika even had their skyscrapers painted black. Black was the official color of dark matter. Ryan had me drive us in his car as a training lesson, with him as my mentor.

"Faster," Ryan said.

I pressed on the accelerator, closing the gap to just a few feet from the rear bumper of the car in front of us. "Keep going... faster... faster," he prodded. My brights were on, so it was easy to see the driver ahead warily looking into his rear view mirror to gauge our pursuit. I could only imagine what he must have been thinking as we tailgated him, speeding down the freeway. The speedometer continued to climb. No highway patrol, I thought, glancing in my rearview mirror.

"Stress him now," Ryan instructed. I crept up to within inches of his rear bumper, making him go even faster. My nerves were frayed traveling this fast and this close. Ryan continued to coach me from the passenger seat. "Watch him now, watch him!" he cautioned, and with that I saw the driver take his last look into the rearview mirror, put on his blinker, and pull his car off to the side of the road. I sped past him as Ryan said enthusiastically, "Good! That's the way it's done: get close, stress him, and make him commit. And don't forget to look through his windows to see what's in front of him."

"Okay," I answered, somewhat sheepishly, relieved to be driving at a slower speed. Poor guy, I thought, he had no idea what was happening.

Ryan was, so to speak, a "close quarters man" and excelled in this strategy. He got right up into the opponent's face, shaking them up, hoping to capitalize on a mistake they might execute when pressed. He was the one in control. For reasons I may never really know, he wanted to teach me these skills of strategic aggression, and I, in turn, was an eager student. It certainly was more exciting than counting pills in the pharmacy.

We spent a lot of time traveling by car, and the mobile security around him was always intense. On this night, as on many road trips, we drove in convoy style: three cars behind us, and three cars in front of us. Somewhere, far behind us, was a tractor-trailer truck, black of course, that Ryan called the "munchkin scruncher." This was a massive vehicle that carried the various armaments and weapons of greater force than what the crew was packing just in case they were needed. Somewhere, up high and out of sight, was a helicopter, and above that were the communications and spy satellites. All of this information was sent to the computers that Ryan's organization controlled in order to orchestrate our trips. Security about Ryan was just a brick in the "big, black wall," yet it was a symphony of firepower and, if necessary, a crescendo of death.

This was a normal night with Ryan—at least his "normal," which was slowly becoming mine as well. It did not matter if we were on the freeways to Middletown or going out to the Kung Pao restaurant or Angie's Joint for a bite to eat in the sleepy town of Mapleton. This was his security package. It never went away. To the untrained eye, nothing was unusual or amiss with the security force trained to blend in. Our daily lives went on seamlessly. What the purpose of a trip was, or why he would go to one grocery store in town and not another, I do not know. What I did know was not to ask. I never went on the big and important missions with Ryan or T.P. I just went on these run-of-the-mill, everyday excursions.

On this particular night, the satellites were orchestrating our trip to Middletown, but for what purpose, I still did not really know. Just then, the black cars leading our entourage began to slow.

"Pull over to the side," Ryan ordered, "I'll drive from here."

The cars in front and in back and the tractor-trailer truck all slowed to a stop as we pulled to the side of the road. Getting out of Ryan's "black mode," we traded places and then continued south toward Middletown.

"Well," he asked, glancing over at me, "what did you learn tonight?"

"Pressure," I replied. "It's all about pressure."

"That's right," he said, with a Cheshire-cat grin.

Ryan was of the warrior caste, and I wasn't. He was wolf-brained, and I was sheep-brained. We were learning how to coexist. Although I enjoyed the high adventure, I always had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach during these training sessions. For now, I was relieved to be out of the driver's seat.

We drove for a while in silence, and then he asked, "Whatcha thinking?" "Not much," I replied, unconvincingly.

"You worried," he asked?

"Yeah, sometimes...especially about the future," I admitted to him.

"You mean your commitment to me on the Psi-control project? It's just business," he responded.

"I know," I said, "but I still have this uneasy feeling about it."

"Well," he replied, "don't let your emotions get the best of you, and don't get too far out into your future. You just keep your commitments to me, and you'll be okay."

"Yeah, I know," I said, and then added, "You need to stay out of Erika's clutches, and I'm your ticket out. Right? This way you don't have to go back in at the top of the organization and work for her. If it wasn't for my financial support, she'd probably have your ass sitting in some corporate office running half the world by now."

"Yeah, that's right," he smiled. "Besides," he continued, "she just put another seventy million dollars from my company into that Psi-control research."

"Sweet Jesus!" I exclaimed. "Seventy million?! That's amazing!"

That's right," he said, with a grin as he glanced in my direction. "And from what she is telling me," he added, "that's just for starters!"

I shook my head from side to side, stunned momentarily by the amount. "Seventy million... and she never gives us a dime. She's tighter with money than a clam in a bucket of piss," I moaned.

"You know the trust's rules: no money comes out from the corporations to us because Erika doesn't want the exposure. The last thing she wants is for the feds to come sniffing around. She's not going to give them any reason to 'unwind' that trust."

I settled back into my seat and watched the lights of the oncoming cars moving in our direction. I watched as they eventually met us and then passed us by. It would be a long trip to Middletown, and I would have plenty of time to think.

I reflected on all that had taken place so far, peeling back the layers of all that had previously transpired and been said. Ryan was referring to my original commitment to pay him back whatever he wanted for getting the Psi-control Switch project done. This was the commitment that I had made to him at La Champagne the second time we had ever met. I mean, I did not even know who he was at that time, let alone that he had this huge corporate structure and someone powerful by the name of Erika running it for him. But I had cut the deal and there was no getting around that. Besides, Ryan, through Erika, was now putting more money into this than I ever expected, and it sounded like the research was really taking off. My original view of the research was that it would be a great boon for mankind with fantastic potential, if only people could see what I saw in it. Back then, there had not been a single doubt in my mind that it would work; yet, I did not even have a working model at that point in time—and now, it is working! Next, I met Ryan, who I did not know from Adam, and I cut a deal with him to pay him whatever he wanted as long as the project got done. Boy, oh, boy! How insane was that? I asked myself. Who in their right mind would do something like that? There must be a reason why I was so obsessed with the Psi-control Switch project, why I went up against all odds to see it through. As I rode in the car reflecting on all that had transpired, I felt a warm glow rise inside of me, knowing that I had actually accomplished my dream—a dream that had a purpose larger than just me.

As Baba believed and taught, and as ancient Hindu philosophy and texts such as the Bhagavad Gita and Upanishads purport, everything is one, everything is interconnected, and separateness is an illusion. There is a purpose and interrelatedness to everything. Then, it dawned on me: Ryan and I were bound through karma to meet. His life's work, his purpose and passion in life, was to prevent the next Great War, to prevent civilization from annihilating itself. I was meant to meet Ryan because I provided the Psi-control technology that his organization could singularly use toward that end. Now, finally, I understood my subconscious obsession with completing the Psi-control Switch project at all costs. It was meant to be, and Ryan and I were meant to meet to enable this technology to become real as a force for peace in this world.

Upon that epiphany, I realized that what happened to me from now on would be of little importance, insignificant in relation to the larger scale of events. The present, that is my present, is small compared to our collective potential future, a future that is shaped by my having delivered the Psi-control technology. I could live or I could die. I could get paid out by Erika and be wealthy, or I could spend my life in abject poverty, living under a bridge. None of this mattered anymore, it was small by comparison. All that mattered was that the future was now in place, I had delivered the key to the future. My job was done. Now, it was Ryan's job to use that key to ensure a future without us annihilating ourselves and the whole planet along with us.

I knew that great and wondrous things would come out of that Psi-control project. As Erika pours more money and talent into the project, the world would have to confront the realities of an interrelated world. Even science understands the realities of a quantum-entangled world. In quantum entanglement, research has proven that you can alter one photon that is any distance away from a second photon, and that second photon is equally changed as the photon that is being directly altered. I imagined that one day the interrelatedness, entanglement, of everything in existence would be proven as scientific fact. How could this not be? It is something I experienced in my daily meditation. Surely, this is a world where everything is entangled with all that exists in this earthly plane, and with everything that is unseen, beyond this earthly plane—a world where everything is connected to everything else, and a universe where unseen planes of existence are also inextricably interconnected to each other and to our worldly plane of existence.

As Erika pumps even more money and resources from Ryan's companies into the Psi-control projects, the key will turn, albeit slowly at first. Be it privately held by a few or publicly held by many, the resources that she invests will turn the key, unlocking our future. Through universities, research institutes, foundations, and corporations, the funds will slowly flow, pushing our understanding forward until the gate is fully open.

A thought momentarily crossed my mind, giving me a cold and queasy feeling. I realized that the future point in time—the point when we understand and can freely travel to these dimensions, these other planes of existence—is still a long way off. The proverbial lock is old and hard, but the key will ultimately turn, given all of Ryan's might and power in this world.

So, here I was, smack in the middle of the present. This was present reality with all of its associated pain and anxiety. I would be paying Ryan as much as he wants for as long as he wants, according to our agreement. And Ryan would be using the money that I would be paying him so that he would not have to go back into the top of his organization, so that he would not have to go back to Erika and the world that he had left behind. He had more leverage with her now. Oh sure, I thought to myself, at some point I will be paid out on the project... but when and how much? It was not in my control, and all that I could do was to be at the mercy of the present while waiting for the future. I would be waiting in Ryan's world.

Ryan's world, I thought to myself, was now my present reality. In his world, your commitment is all that you have. For Ryan, commitment was a life and death issue that revolved around honesty. It was a sacred trust that we shared. In some countries if someone was to lie they would literally be killed for doing so. Ryan once explained it to me succinctly, saying, "If you meet someone in the middle of the desert and he asks you where the next water hole is, you had better tell him the truth. If you don't, then the next time you meet, he will kill you." It was as simple as that. Make no mistake about it. Ryan was trained as a warrior, trained at killing and could snuff out my life in an instant. But here is the paradox that I had to come to terms with. This was once asked of me years ago. "You are standing with a gun in your hand. In front of you is a pregnant woman and in front of her is a mad man with a knife. The mad man screams at the pregnant woman, threatening her, and then lunges forward with the knife to kill her. What do you do?" Ryan lived in a world of life and death issues on a constant basis. This is not like my working in a pharmacy environment. Sure, while working in retail there were some customers that I would have loved to have killed. But for Ryan, this was the real thing. This was face-to-face kill the other person, or he will kill the pregnant woman... and even you. If you kill the mad man you are on one hand a killer and on the other a savior. Remember, there are bad people in the world, and just because you have not met them does not mean that they do not exist. And for Ryan, this was not always on just a small scale. Within his corporate empire decisions of profound consequences were, and still are, made on a daily basis. If we feed this group of a million people with our resources on this side of the world it will mean that another group of people on the other side of the world will starve. What are we to do? What kind of thoughts do you have late at night making that decision? Now, I sat in the midst of this dichotomy between good and evil as we continued our ride. I can tell you clearly that I knew which side of the moral dilemma I would come down on. For the pregnant woman and the untold number of countless others I thank him, and that is why I rode with him this night.

Suddenly, two shots rang out in quick succession. Tires screeched behind us. Ryan checked his watch and kept driving, listening intently to sounds outside his driver side window. Shortly thereafter, we heard a low thump, thump, thump as another three shots went off in the distance. Ryan looked back at his watch and said angrily, "Damn it! That took nearly twenty seconds." Ryan knew that Erika's top enforcer was always listening to our conversations. He was the security specialist, the head of the security force who was responsible for our immediate safety.

We ended up at a nuclear power plant about twenty-five miles southeast of Middletown. The site was ominous, especially at night, with its massive cooling towers, barbed-wire-topped fences, and lights that cut the darkness into shadows spilled upon the ground. Ryan pulled up to an unmanned gate on the perimeter and turned off the engine. "Wait here. I'll be back," he said.

"Okay," I responded, as I watched him enter the gate and disappeared into the darkness of the immense facility.

When you are all by yourself, the mind creates strange thoughts, especially in dangerous situations. When you are not in control, this process is multiplied. Is this where I am going to die, this lonely and isolated place? I wondered. No one would ever know the truth of how I died, the truth of the Psi-control project. Maureen would never know what happened to me. I reflected back to how Ryan's organization had changed the world around me, bringing me in closer to Ryan's world.

The first time that I ever paid attention to this—to their total infiltration into my life—was late one evening when Ryan and I were sitting at the bar in La Champagne and two people entered through the front door, one of whom I knew from the gym. I routinely went there several times a week to try to stay in shape. He was just a casual acquaintance when working out. We lifted weights, and sometimes, we would talk a bit in between sets. He was tall, broad shouldered, and on occasion I complimented him on the amount of weight that he could lift with his muscular, yet wiry frame. Now, as they passed by, I said hello, but he just nodded. Finding stools at the end of the bar, they ordered drinks and began to talk. Just then, Ryan looked at his watch, smiled, and said, "It's eleven o'clock."

"So?" I asked, with some curiosity.

"They're right on time," he replied.

"Who's right on time?" I asked.

"It's the changing of the shift," he replied.

I then watched as two other men got up, paid the barkeep their tab, and left. It finally dawned on me what was happening. I had been surrounded all along! At work, in a restaurant, exercising, it did not matter where—Erika's and Ryan's people were everywhere I went. I would never again be able to tell what peoples' roles were as they entered into my life. Were they a friend, or just a protector acting as a friend? At first, this gave me an uncomfortable feeling, but with the passing of years, I became accustomed to it.

As the years passed, and with my new "normal" established, I had ample opportunity to question Ryan about this security around us. He explained to me that these were not just ordinary agents but the elite "guns" of the world. Ryan had worked with many of them before, and all were under the control of Erika's top security lieutenant. On rare occasions, he would point one out to me by complimenting the man, telling me about his particular, exceptional skills. Ryan almost never said anything to them, and I never did as I knew this would be a security breach. None however reached the stature of his partner "tooth pick." A shadowy figure, T.P. was always in the background. Even Erika's top security lieutenant was wary of him.

During our early years together, Ryan would say, "You are probably the most photographed person in the world. Nobody gets within one hundred feet of you without someone knowing." This referred to their original use of long-range cameras for security purposes.

But as the years passed, the technology changed, as did Ryan. His preference for the color black vanished; his black car was replaced with a bright-red Ford F250 pickup truck. I drove Ryan's new fire-engine red truck from Colorado to New York for him to deliver it to him. While refueling at a gas station, I called him on a cell phone just to check in. I knew how much he adored his new red truck.

"You're not going to do anything stupid with that truck, are ya?" he teased. He knew my predilection for getting into trouble.

"Yeah, right," I replied, "A bright-red truck where I have every satellite on this side of the equator watching it, and I'm going to do something stupid?"

Ryan laughed, admonishing, "That's right." He was obviously correct about the information age.

Now, I sat in the black car, under the black cover of night, ruminating on all of this when Ryan finally exited the nuclear facility and returned to the car. He remained quiet as we started the long trip home. I knew not to ask any questions. Finding out what this road trip to the nuclear power facility in the middle of the night, after our dinner at Angie's Joint, was all about would have to wait.

Rather, I reflected to myself, Just another night out on the town with The Great and Mighty Ryan Moran.
CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE: INEBRIATED

"Please... uh... S'il vous plait."

It was about six months later when I came home from work at the pharmacy one day to find a small note taped to my front door. All that was written on it was the name and room number of a cheap motel at the south end of town, and Ryan's name printed at the bottom. Just a few weeks previously, I had managed to get him his own apartment; we had both recently agreed that we needed some space away from each other. But maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all....

I drove to the motel and knocked on the room's door, but no one answered. That's strange, I thought. Trying the doorknob, I realized the door was not locked, so I slowly opened it. I entered the room to Ryan sitting hunched over at a desk sobbing, and a nearly finished bottle of vodka at his side. What on earth...? I had never seen Ryan like this, and my eyes welled as I took in the unsettling scene before me.

"Ryan... what is it? Are you all right?" I asked.

"They... they killed my wife," he sobbed.

"Who killed your wife?" I asked, bewildered and concerned.

"The agency. The agency killed my wife," he wept.

Finding some tissues near the bed, I started to dry his eyes and dab at his nose, puzzling that this did not make any sense. Ryan was not married. What on earth can he be thinking? What is this all about? I was stymied, yet it hurt me to see him in this state.

"It'll be okay," I reassured him, as I began to rub his back to comfort him.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door. Giving Ryan's shoulder a squeeze, I got up and opened it to find a very large, muscular man standing on the doorstep. He quickly entered the room, found a chair near the end of the bed, and sat down without saying a word. To say that this was unsettling would be an understatement—it frightened me. Who is he? What does he want? I wondered. Unsure of what was happening or why, I had an uneasy feeling about him. I returned to Ryan's side while keeping a wary eye on the man sitting in the chair. As if without blinking, he simply sat and watched us.

"Okay," I said to Ryan, trying to ignore the enigmatic "guest" planted in the chair at the end of the bed, "Let's get you home." As I helped him to his feet, he unsteadily leaned on my shoulder, sobbing disconsolately and repeating brokenly, "They killed my wife... They killed my wife...." I maneuvered Ryan out the door and into the front seat of my car. As Ryan wept and sobbed with abject grief, I drove him home to his apartment.

This was the first time that I had ever seen Ryan drunk, let alone wasted, but it would not be the last. Unfortunately, it would become a recurring theme for several more years. I tried to get him into bed that night, but he became angry and belligerent until we got into a shouting match. Finally, calming down a bit, he ended up sitting at his desk smoking a cigarette. Sitting there, exhaling plumes of smoke, he grew somewhat lucid. Then he ordered me to get him another bottle of vodka and more cigarettes from the liquor store.

"No," I said. "That's not a good idea."

Red-faced, he shouted at me, "You just do what I tell you to do! Understand?!"

"Yeah, yeah," I scowled, and headed for the door. As I exited, he yelled over to me, "And remember to watch your mirrors!"

When inebriated, Ryan was too difficult to fight with, and, as I learned over time, he could be especially cruel when he was drunk. I drove to the store while checking my rearview mirror, but I had no idea what I was looking for. Musing to myself I thought, Must be a "spook" kind of thing. Nevertheless, the uncertainty made me anxious. I picked up a bottle of vodka and the cigarettes, and returned to his apartment where I found him on the phone. While talking, he gestured for me to get him a glass from the sink. I retrieved the glass and set it on the desk along with the items from the store. He opened the bottle and poured the vodka into the glass, brimming, as he continued to talk. I sat patiently on the couch across from him. "Well," he said, on the phone, "I like your nipples better than your sister's nipples." There was a short pause, and then he said, "I know you're twins, but I still like your nipples better." Then he became aware that I was still there and said, "Tell Erika I'll call her later, okay?" And with that, he hung up the phone.

I was stymied, bewildered. Strange days indeed, I thought. What can possibly happen next?

Ryan took a series of large gulps of vodka from the glass, finishing half of it, and lit another cigarette. Blowing the smoke toward the ceiling, he said, "I've got something I need you to do."

"What?" I asked.

"I want you to call the Bank of France."

"What?! It's probably the middle of the night over there." I complained, "Besides, I don't have their phone number."

"Damn it! Just do what I say!" he demanded. "Call an international operator."

After much ado, I got an operator to dial the number for me.

"Now what?" I asked him, while waiting to be patched through.

"Tell them that you are speaking on behalf of Ryan Moran, and you want to speak to the bank's president," he replied.

I rolled my eyes but did as he instructed.

Eventually, someone from the bank got on the line addressing me in French. I did not think that this was the best of times to practice the language, so I told him I needed to speak to someone who spoke English, "Please... uh... S'il vous plait." I heard a moment of commotion in the background until, eventually, someone who spoke English—albeit, with a thick French accent—came on the line. I relayed the message to him and went through yet two more people, all the while hearing the name "Ryan Moran" being spoken in the background. Then the line rang several times before it was finally picked up by a man who said, in a slow and still-sleepy voice, "Bonjour."

I explained to him that I needed to speak to the bank's president on behalf of Ryan Moran.

I heard him slowly mouth the name over a couple of times, "Ryan Moran...? Ryan Moran...?" Then he said, in English, "Ah, yes, I'm the president. What is it that Mr. Moran wants?"

I relayed this to Ryan, and he shouted across the room, "Tell him that I want to order five very large crude carriers, each capable of carrying three hundred thousand deadweight metric tons, okay?"

I relayed the message to the bank president who responded, "Yes."

I looked back to Ryan and nodded.

"Tell him that the lines of credit have already been established by Erika," Ryan stated.

I again relayed Ryan's message to the bank president, who once more responded, "Yes."

"Now what?" I asked Ryan.

"Hang up," he said.

"Huh?"

"Just hang up," he instructed, curtly.

Dutifully complying, I said, "Thank you. Goodbye," and hung up the phone.

"Why don't you go to sleep now?" I suggested.

"No," he said, as he took another large gulp of the vodka, "Get me my AA 'Big Book'; it's in the bedroom."

"You can't do that!" I replied.

"Why not?" He asked.

"Because you're drunk, that's why," I said.

"Isn't that who it's for? Drunks?" He asked.

I couldn't deny the logic, so with a shake of my head, I got him the book.

He continued to drink, reading aloud chapter after chapter from the 'Big Book' until finally, after a couple of hours, he collapsed from sheer exhaustion with his head upon the desk. Only then was I able to put him to bed.

These drunken episodes lasted for many days as he would continue the cycle when he woke up. They were grueling, stressful, even heart-wrenching ordeals for me, and they took a huge toll upon Ryan's health and well-being.

Weeks later, long after he had sobered up, I asked him about the large man in the motel room. Ryan told me that they had worked together for the CIA. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "He's the kind of guy you meet in an airport with a machine gun under his oat."

When I asked Ryan what he had meant about his wife being killed, he told me that when he was married to his second wife, the CIA tried to manipulate him into doing something that he did not want to do. In order to try to control him, they told him that his wife had been killed. In actuality, this was a cruel ruse, and she was not dead, as he later found out.

Yet, still, today I have only one lingering question. Did those oil tankers ordered through France ever arrive?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: SANCTIONED

"Sounds like more fun than a barrelful of monkeys on speed."

Maureen called me late one evening to let me know that she had been in a car accident. She was all right but sustained a mild concussion. While driving over to her house to see how she was doing, I reflected on our relationship and how Ryan was still a bone of contention between us.

On one hand, I wanted to share with her what was happening in my life, but this was becoming increasingly difficult to do. Anything that I would tell her about Ryan's background and my interactions with him was just too fantastic and fictional for her to accept. She would quickly shut down mentally and emotionally whenever I talked about him, although our conversations regarding other friends, work, and future plans were acceptable fare. Consequently, over time, I ended up either not telling her anything about Ryan or sanitizing my conversations about him. My double life revolved around being a mild mannered pharmacist on one hand and sidekick to a superhero on another. What I had been doing and how I spent my time became compartmentalized on its own accord. I could not fault Maureen for this. She did not have the same purview and experiences as I had. Really, who in their right mind would believe such a story? Besides, Ryan would be livid if I divulged too much to her or jeopardized what we were doing. Even I, who was slowly assimilated into that world, had difficulty believing it, and that took years. Continually, I searched for validity and confirmation of the situations that I was in, always testing and retesting these events against reality. To expect blind faith on the part of anyone without personal experience or objectively verified facts would be unfair. Yet, I still had this need to share my life with her, and on occasion I would gently broach the subject, perhaps crossing the line where I should not.

As I drove through rush hour traffic to Maureen's house, I remembered lying in bed with Maureen, one night, trying to explain what it was like to have all this security about me. She had wanted me to explain this in more depth, so I told her about all the photos that were taken of me from long range and how microwaves from satellites were bounced off windows to catch the vibrations of conversations. She had then asked if the people who were monitoring me in this way were also monitoring her. I told her that I suspected it was likely because they tended to cast a wide net in such situations. This amount of surveillance in Maureen's case would be especially true due to her firsthand knowledge of the Psi-control Switch. At this point, she had gotten very upset, saying that they had no right to do that. I was not going to argue the matter. I did not think it fruitful or wise to proceed any further with the conversation, so I had dropped the issue.

In any event, I knew that the two separate images of Ira Teller that I presented to her made her feel increasingly uncomfortable. On one hand, she could accept and understand the Ira whom she worked with, the one who played with her children, meditated, and made love to her; but on the other hand, the Ira who had a pie-in-the-sky research project and was the friend of a man whom she saw as a drunk and a louse was too much for her to bear. Maureen's understandable cognitive dissonance would eventually trump any rational conversation on the matter. I would either be seen as a mad hatter or, even worse, just a pharmacist. Even though she could operate the Psi-control Switch and sit in the light of meditation, she was never able to fully understand the project's importance to humankind or the key roles it could play in the world's future. But then, again, few could. It was a truly rare and exceptional mind that could extrapolate to that end point, to the point of realizing the ultimate, profound potential of the Psi-control Switch's technology on the world stage.

Initially, Ryan had not believed that the Psi-control Switch could work, but he was able to transcend his own prejudices, keep an open mind, and ultimately have Erika test the device. Perhaps he was capable of contemplating enough "What if?" scenarios to justify transcending his socially-conditioned, rational thoughts. That said, this is not to minimize Maureen's intellectual capabilities, but rather, it is a way to point out the complexity involved between us and what I was up against with her. Ryan ultimately had kept an open mind, and it had paid off; Maureen seemed daunted by Ryan's purported world, my stories about Ryan, and any so-called fantasies I had about the Psi-control Switch's future. I was dancing as fast as I could on the tops of flames between overt and covert worlds, and if I were to stumble, I could easily get scorched. That is to say, if I could not continue to convince Maureen that the Psi-control Switch, which took up so much of my attention and finances, was a worthy and important project, then there was the possibility that we might start to grow apart.

Finally arriving at Maureen's, I found her resting in bed when I arrived. I sat beside her gently, stroking her hair and cheek, as she explained to me how the accident had happened. Her eyes were half closed, and she was groggy. I tried to comfort her, and she assured me that she would be all right. With a kiss, I left her to rest, and I returned to my own house. It was difficult to see her so vulnerable.

Several days later, I talked to her neurologist while I was at work. He was a very straightforward physician with whom I had previously consulted regarding head injury patients in the intensive care unit at the hospital. He told me that she would probably be disoriented, drowsy, and confused for a while. Perhaps she would not test well cognitively for a several days or more, but, overall, her prognosis for a full recovery was good. He proved to be correct, and in a few weeks she was back to normal—a vivacious, warm, young woman who laughed, smiled, and enjoyed life. I was so relieved to see her up and about, feeling like her old self.

Then, as if to prove that God does play dice with the universe, she had another, similar accident and suffered a second concussion.

I was stunned. Poor Maureen! What next? I wondered.

It was not long afterward that I found myself driving a car with a gun pointed at my head. What a predicament, I thought to myself, as Ryan sat in the passenger seat, aiming the rifle squarely at my temple. There are times when you know that things are not going well, and, I must say, this surely was one. Yep, indeedy.

I was calm in spite of the circumstances, but I didn't have many options. I glanced at Ryan's face, searching for clues—perhaps an emotional weakness or an opening that I could use as leverage to get out of this situation...or... maybe this was just some outlandish game. I found none, and he was stone cold serious.

"Who gave the sanction order?" I asked, quietly.

Ryan remained quiet, his eyes and the barrel of the rifle fixed on their target.

"Well...?" I prodded. "Who?"

"Kennedy," he said, quietly.

Ted Kennedy? I puzzled. Why would Massachusetts state senator, Edward Kennedy want to sanction me?

Senator Kennedy was the organization's political point man in this country, but I could not decipher the connection. Why would he want to have me killed over an argument with Ryan? What was the logic to this?

As I drove—my hands as steady on the steering wheel as the barrel aimed at my temple—I ruminated on what Ryan and I had discussed earlier that day.

Earlier that afternoon, Ryan had told me that Erika wanted to pay me out on the Psi-control Switch project. Of course, I was hoping for a large deposit into a Swiss bank account, but Erika had other plans. She had crunched the numbers and predicted prescription drug use far into the future as the nation's population aged. She was impressed with the projections and wanted Ryan and me to establish a small pilot pharmacy for one year. If the pilot pharmacy succeeded and met her performance standards, then she would fund fifty larger pharmacies, with the goal of eventually financing a nationwide chain of thousands. Ryan would receive a large lump sum of cash, and I would get the net profits from five of the stores for life, a substantial fortune. But... there was a catch. Ryan and I would have to fund the initial test stores ourselves. She did not want to use any funds from the trust that had been set up in Ryan's name that were the basis of his corporations. There were strict financial controls regarding the trust, and any monies given to Ryan, either directly or indirectly, could be a red flag to the federal government. The feds could use this as an excuse to look deeper into the matter, and under no circumstances would she create a situation that would provoke the feds to investigate. Because of my close relationship with Ryan, both financially and otherwise, even monies paid out only to me could potentially be viewed as suspect.

Ryan had laid out the plan and waited for me to respond.

"Christ," I complained, "I don't want to do that. You know how I feel about retail work. I'd rather have a second anus. It's conventional and practical, but I'm a social and enterprising kind of guy. Where's the creativity, huh?! You try doing something creative with a suppository! I'm trying to get out of pharmacy, and now you want to stick me into one of those godforsaken hellholes!"

"This is what Erika wants you to do," he replied, firmly. My RILE strategy to throw them off balance was fading fast—I was finally being corralled.

"Oh, great! Well, then, if that's what Erika wants!" I spouted, sarcastically. "Sounds like more fun than a barrelful of monkeys on speed. Why can't she just drop a bagful of money in front of me without anyone knowing? I mean, come on, she does these god-damned super secret projects all over the world to the tune of billions of dollars, and you're telling me that she can't turn a blind eye to this? Look at how much she paid—without my knowledge, mind you— to research the Psi-control device to begin with! And now she can't simply pay me off to own the device and all of its future rights?"

"Look," Ryan said, angrily, "she has plans for you, and this is what she wants done!"

"No!" I replied, sharply. "I'm not going to do it!"

"Oh, yes, you are!" Ryan growled.

We went round and round like this, sounding like a couple of obstinate schoolyard brats in a knockdown-dragout shouting match. Suddenly, Ryan got up from the couch, went to the closet, and pulled out a rifle. He cocked the lever and pointed it at me saying, "Get up!"

"What?!" I asked, unflinching. I was stunned.

"Get up, damn it, and get into the fucking car!" He spat angrily, "You've been sanctioned."

It was near dusk as he forced me to drive up into the foothills that border Mapleton to the east.

The rifle held steadfast, pointing at my head, I drove on, ruminating over what Ryan had just said. Why would Kennedy want to sanction me? It was all so surreal.

"Stop here," Ryan finally said.

I pulled the car onto the shoulder, turned it off, and looked at him. Nudging me with the end of the rifle he said, "Get out."

Opening the car door, I got out and looked around, noticing nightfall descending over the town's glimmering lights far below. He pointed the rifle down toward a ravine just below us. "Walk," he ordered. I entered the ravine, crossing a downtrodden barbed-wire fence as he followed about ten feet behind me, the rifle still aimed at my back. We proceeded into the bottom of the ravine passing tatters of windblown garbage from the nearby road. "Stop and turn around!" he commanded, as we reached the bottom.

I knew this was the end. As I turned around I drew all of my spiritual energy up to the top of my head, to my crown chakra, transcending the thoughts and emotions swirling through my mind. All around us, crickets chirped as the sweet scent of wild grasses rose up into the night air. I merged within myself, watching the light of my spiritual center vibrate and swirl about me. Its magical, glowing dance formed a cocoon of light, protecting me. I felt only peace as I calmly looked into Ryan's blue-gray eyes as he aimed the rifle, held me in its sights, and... pulled the trigger.

A molten blue ball ringed with orange flames erupted from the end of the barrel with a reverberating bang. The muzzle blast seemed to sail toward me in slow motion, until I felt the bullet whiz past, mere inches from my head.

I just stood there, hands at my sides, not knowing what to do. Ryan walked toward me angrily shouting something, but I could not hear him due to the ringing in my ears. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and shouted into my ear, "Don't you disobey an order from Erika ever again, understand?! The next time, I won't fuckin' miss."

"Okay! Okay!" I shouted back, as we started to walk back up the hill to the car.

A few days later, Ryan told me that Erika was upset with me because I didn't get frightened when I should have been that night. She wanted to know what was wrong with me.

Obviously, I could not breathe a word of that evening to Maureen—she too would have wanted to know what was wrong with me but not because I wasn't frightened. She knew my meditation sessions and my philosophical beliefs too well for that. No, she would have instead wondered what was wrong with me for hanging out with a guy who could be possessed enough to force me at gunpoint to follow him anywhere. If I had told her about that night with Ryan, she probably would have wanted to give me a concussion to knock some sense into me!
CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE: REMORSE

"A person either gets humble or gets humiliated."

In the end, as always, Erika had her way. So, I borrowed some money for a down payment, and Ryan and I bought a small pharmacy from a Mr. Lance Dawkins. He was an older pharmacist who was eager to retire. Because we did not have a lot of money, we purchased the pharmacy with a financial vehicle called an interim operating agreement. In effect, we would operate off the pharmacy's current licenses until we could pay off the purchase price. Our contract provided that we make payments of known amounts at regular intervals until the pharmacy was paid off at which time we would then own it, and it would be licensed in our names. If there were any business losses, we would incur them, and if there were any profits, they would become ours.

Although I did not want to be the least bit involved in this project, I nonetheless put my heart into it in an effort to make sure that it would be successful. After all, its success would be in my best interest. It was the keystone to my future, a bridge to wealth and success.

However, the pharmacy that we took over was not very functional because it had been very poorly run by Mr. Dawkins' antiquated ways. A lot of work had to be done, including altering many aspects of the operations to allow for profitability. Obviously, Ryan was very adept at this overhaul, given his business acumen and past experience in that regard. I followed his lead as he changed, improved, or eliminated aspects of the business to enhance marketing, functionality, and effectiveness. We both worked as a team— twelve hours a day, seven days a week—to ensure its success. I ran the pharmacy side of the business, and Ryan ran the back office—the financial, legal, marketing, and accounting matters. Maureen came in to visit me, since I seemed to now live at the pharmacy, and she was very impressed with what we had accomplished. This filled me with great hope, both for our future financial success and for our future as a couple. After four months of this grueling schedule, we were very successful, showing profits that exceeded our expectations and with projections for an even rosier future.

Mr. Dawkins was also aware of the changes that we had made and of our phenomenal success. He came into the pharmacy one day and explained to us that his son was in trouble and needed money to pay off the IRS. He demanded that we pay him a very large sum of money prior to the payment schedule's due date stated in our contractual agreement so that he could pay off his son's obligation. We told him that we could not do that, but we would allow him to take out a loan from a bank based upon the medication inventory that was in the store. Shaking his head, Mr. Dawkins refused to agree to this. Then, in blunt fashion, and intent on what he was after, he told us that if we did not pay him this large sum of money earlier than what we were contractually responsible for, then he would not renew his pharmacy licenses. Although we were in the process of getting our own licenses, this was a very lengthy bureaucratic process, and Mr. Dawkins' refusal to renew his store's licenses would have left us nonoperational for at least three months until our own license applications would be approved and granted. Having the store nonoperational for months would inevitably mean a lethal loss of our customer base to the point that we would have to permanently shut the store down. The money we would lose in that case would be insurmountable. Quite frankly, we would never have been able to recover from a blow like that. It quickly became apparent to us that he had seller's remorse, and the story about his son was just a ruse to regain ownership of the store because it was now doing so well. Ryan and I viewed this as a form of extortion.

There are some things that you do not want to do in this world. Pulling on the proverbial bear's tail, kissing a rattlesnake on the lips, and pissing on an electric fence are all well-known examples. But trying to extort Ryan was beyond the pale, it was a boundary that one did not want to cross. Lawsuits were filed on both sides, but Dawkins had grossly misjudged Ryan's reaction. Ryan had me sell off most of the store's prescription inventory, taking the cash with us. We did not make any more of our scheduled payments to Dawkins, and we took the accounts receivable that customers owed to us. When there was only a shell of a business left and all was plundered, Ryan handed the keys of the pharmacy back over to Mr. Dawkins, telling him, "You can have your fucking store back now."

The outcome of this was cataclysmic. We found out from Mr. Dawkins' lawyer that he shortly thereafter ended up in the hospital with chest pains. Ryan took to drinking yet again, and I became depressed as I watched my potential fortune and dreams slip away. Beyond all of this was a simple fact of life entrenched at the top of the world: you do not fail Erika for any reason at all, not even if you are The Great and Mighty Ryan Moran... let alone Ira Teller.

Mark my words when I say that Ryan, in these earlier days, could be cruel and ruthless, grinding you up mentally and emotionally. Many times, I had seen his verbal whip lash out, cutting down others who were of a much greater stature than me. Then as a final act of humiliation he would, so to speak, pull down their pants in public for everyone to see their inherent deficits. I, too, was no stranger to this, having been on the receiving end of his verbal assaults, especially when he was drunk. Some would ask why I did not leave. That was easier said than done. Besides, I knew where Ryan was coming from. He had just recently come out of some very dangerous and grueling situations directed at protecting the world. He was used to telling the elite and powerful what to do, and this was not always expressed in a pleasant nor politic fashion. Presidents, kings, and congressmen received lashings and public humiliation at Ryan's hands. He told me, "A person either gets humble or gets humiliated." For a man of his stature who knew every top Israeli general by first name, Ryan was extremely humble but maintained a firm stance. Sometimes he would instinctively fall back into his warrior mode, proverbially burning the land and marching on through.

But now, with the demise of the pharmacy—under Erika's abject disapproval—I could not leave Ryan alone and abandoned. Sure, he was gruff and uncompromising at times, but I, unlike others, understood that he was simply this way sometimes. So, I stayed by Ryan's side; yet, I knew that as soon as he would emerge from his drinking, an utterly retaliatory and hellish world would be mine.

As for Mr. Dawkins, I swore that if I ever found out where he is buried I would gladly dance and piss on his grave for what he cost me, both financially and emotionally. His deceitful greed was wholly unwarranted. If I could, I would have a great demonic beast of the underworld slowly roast his balls upon an open flame, then eat them for breakfast. Yes, I know... Baba would not particularly approve of this.

Finally, adding to my mountain of woes, Maureen told me that she'd finally had enough and never wanted to see me again. For Maureen, the collapse of the business had been the final straw, an irreconcilable position of lost faith in me. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter from her and all that was enclosed was her engagement ring and nothing else. She refused to answer my calls and returned my mail, leaving me at an utter, heartbreaking loss. A feeling of complete emptiness and despair racked my body, tortured my mind, and suffocated my spirit, unleashing a virtual tsunami of pain. I asked a friend of mine who was acquainted with both of us to find out more about what was going on with her. He later reported to me that he had spoken with one of Maureen's girlfriends about me. Maureen had told her that she thought that I was having someone take pictures of us having sex together and that I was selling these in New York City. When I heard this I was utterly shocked! My mind raced about searching for answers but could find only one conclusion: perhaps my talk of security measures regarding photographs combined with Maureen's second concussion produced such a hideous distortion of the truth. I do not know; she has never since talked to me.

With the crumbling of my very foundation and an avalanche of impending doom, all that I had left now was God. Like so many before me who have been dispirited and suffered even greater losses, I sought sanctuary from the worldly blows in a church. Here, I could bare my soul and seek remedy for my grieving heart. I am grateful that their doors were unlocked during this time of need, as I sat night after night in prayer and meditation. There, as I sought shelter from an incomprehensible demoralization and life's cruel ravages, a man came to me. He appeared as if in a dream, with long dark hair, darkened skin, and deep-set eyes. I sat fixated, held in his gaze. A slow golden spiral of light emanated from his chest and entered into my heart as an ultimate, illuminating act of grace. Out of every problem comes a gift. One does not comprehend a vision until after the fact. The mind is too slow and too much an encumbered instrument to grasp the subtleties of the light. But when it was done, I opened my eyes and looked up to the cross for confirmation. Then I knew why all my tears had been wiped away. With this vision a prescient revelation assured me I would endure the coming storms.
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX: THE LONG YEARS

"Let's go!"

The hitchhikers' road is a patchwork of sustained human interactions and exhilarating adventure interwoven with interludes of solitude and isolation. Nature with her wisdom has counterbalanced the dualities and extremes of life. One can experience the goodness and joy of humanity, then cruelty and drudgery within a very short time. Good and evil play out daily in inexplicable ways. But one thing is for certain: if you hitch with an "Anywhere" sign, the way is roundabout and circuitous, winding around to bring you where you never planned to be. Yet it is exactly where you are supposed to be. This is the way of the road and this was what I experienced when I hitched an amazing ride with Ryan Moran.

Ryan and I, now riding in the same car of life, became comrades of the road—we bolstered each other's purpose in life through both the good times and hard times. Perhaps the biggest bump along the road in our odyssey was our loss of the pharmacy venture. That experience gave way in the years that followed to more adventures in life that awaited us. And, as I look back, I relish my reminiscences of these special times, treasuring those exceptional experiences as we shared our journey together.

The first few years after the demise of our little independent pharmacy were the hardest. With the business failure not soon to be forgotten, there was plenty of blame to go around. I grew isolated as friends and family began to drift away. I could not blame them. My marching—or should I say, hitchhiking—to the beat of my own drummer, particularly with regard to the Psi control Switch project, was something they could not understand to begin with. Now this— watching me crash and burn on the pharmacy project—was their final straw. Many did not understand what I was going through, and it was very difficult to explain it to them in a meaningful way because they did not have the same passionate desire to usher in a new and different future. On the other hand, I'd had to estrange some friends and family, as per Ryan's orders, involving security issues. Yet, even I had not wanted some of them involved due to the associated dangers, and so, in various ways, I excluded them from my life for their own protection. I was now separated from those I had been closest to, and, except for Ryan, I was very much alone. Increasingly, I realized that I was living a solitary and somewhat reclusive life.

I travelled about upstate New York, bouncing from one temporary pharmacy job to another while Ryan mostly stayed at home in Mapleton. At times we would join up in whatever town I happened to be working in at the time, and at other times Ryan would interrupt his routine by setting out on secret missions for long periods of time.

Throughout these difficult years—as through other years— although we remained close friends, we still fought like brothers. Sometimes people would see us shouting at each other in public over some inconsequential, irrelevant matter, whereupon they would try to intercede, but the two of us would turn on them, berating them for interrupting our good fight. Later, in the evening, we would laugh together at such incidents, recounting the shocked and indignant expressions on the good Samaritan's faces who had tried to intervene on our behalf.

"Oye, Sheldon," Ryan would say, "a Jew and an Irishman—talk about guilt and suffering!" Suffering from our previous, individual life experiences comprised, to a large extent, the underpinnings of our friendship. This may seem strange to some, but this was a bond that we shared with one another. Our recent suffering and feelings of guilt in the failed pharmacy venture only solidified our bond all the more. Over the ensuing years, our friendship became stronger.

Good friends often take photographs of one another to share as keepsakes over the years, but for me, it was snapshots in time of special little moments that commemorated my bond with Ryan. Indeed, it is said that sometimes it is the little things in life that one remembers the most.

One of these little things that I remember was when Ryan once gave me a watch for my birthday, but I did not want to wear it, teasing him that they already had enough ways to track me. The truth was that I once had a grade school teacher who had lost a finger when his wedding ring got caught on a fence as he was cutting grass while riding on a mower. Because of this, I never wore any jewelry on my hands, and over time, with all our moves, I lost the watch. I wish that I had it now as a reminder of our friendship, but at least I have the memory of it.

Also Christmas was a big event for Ryan. I cannot remember a year that he did not set up a Christmas tree with lights or, as I would tease him, his "Chanukah bush." He was not religious or spiritual in the same way that I was, but rather took a more secular approach. It was a time for community, sharing, and good will. Still, he kept the cultural remnants of his childhood Christmases. I took great joy in watching his face light up just like a young child's when he would unwrap the gifts that I gave him on Christmas morning. Over time, we became like a family, living and interacting as such.

Many people whom I have met would talk to me about their family in some regard, be it about the time they vacationed at Disneyland, about what the kids were doing in school and the sports they played, or about simple, everyday things that they enjoyed sharing together. Although I did not have a family, I did have stories of my adventures with Ryan to share.

Ryan and I both enjoyed regaling strangers, and acquaintances with our interesting or amusing anecdotes. Yes, we would still bring up the fact that we had met under the snake at Jitz's Tavern or joke about the twenty dollars that I had left for him on the windowsill. One of our favorite tales was about the time when we lived in Hillsway, and a young police officer made a routine stop while we were driving about. When he looked into our car and saw a loaded forty-five revolver on the seat between us, he got terrified. He drew his own revolver and, all the while shaking, ordered us out of the car and handcuffed us. Other Hillsway patrol cars quickly arrived.

Why this momentary lapse in our security existed, I did not (and may never) know. A few minutes later, a captain in a patrol car screeched his car to a halt in front of us, jumped out, and, waving his hands frenetically, screamed over and over, "Get those fucking handcuffs off of them!" After the young officer complied and made the appropriate apologies, Ryan simply grinned and said, "Thank you." Through our security lieutenant I am sure some heads rolled that day.

Another of our favorite stories was about the time in Damville, when we moved into a not-so-fancy apartment with cobwebs on the ceiling. Upon seeing the cobwebs, Ryan relayed another story to me about one of his early assignments. In Ryan's earlier days, he had been working in South America for the CIA, helping to destabilize the economy of a certain country. He and other covert agents travelled through the country's rural areas on horseback carrying cases of dynamite. They would enter into remote village's banks and literally blow up the money so that no one had any to spend. The central government could not print and distribute new money fast enough for anyone to use, ultimately bringing about an economic collapse. Ryan told me how he and the agents would retire to mountain caves in the evenings to rest, but the caves had a lot of cobwebs, so they made torches for light and to burn the cobwebs out. In, perhaps, a more comical moment Ryan wanted to demonstrate this technique to me in our new Damville apartment. He took a straw broom, poured lighter fluid over the bristles, and pulled out a lighter. I told him that I did not think that was such a good idea, but he insisted and lit the broom on fire. Although he certainly did get rid of the cobwebs, he left soot all over the white ceiling and set off the fire alarm. Needless to say, the apartment manager was not impressed.

And then there was that time when we went down that dark alley together, he with his forty-five revolver strapped onto his hip and I trailing behind him admonishing yet again, as I so often did, that I did not think that this was such a good idea. As always, he simply replied, "Let's go!" And so, the adventures continued.

As for competing with stories of Disneyland, Ryan's corporations had controlling shares of Disneyland stock in one form or another. Knowing that Ryan owned stock in Disneyland did give me a certain level of satisfaction, even though I had never visited the place.

Every now and then I would ask Ryan about a headline in the newspaper. He would just grin and casually reply, like a boy who had his hand caught in the cookie jar, "What? All we did was blow up their oil wells," or some similar refrain. While watching the news together he would make subtle comments such as "Wait 'til you see what happens to this guy several months from now," and sure enough, there would be an incident perhaps involving the IRS, drugs, or the inappropriate use of corporate funds. Whatever the means, Ryan's organization would ferret someone out with the results being humiliation, the lack of credibility, or the ending of a career. There are those in the world who embrace moral turpitude, baseness, and depravity toward their fellow man. The truly evil would not want to be in Ryan's crosshairs.

Perhaps the best story I would have to tell in later years would be the one about Erika putting me in prison. Well, I exaggerate a bit here... actually, this is what happened: Erika put together a large block of money from the Germans and the Japanese who were collaboratively developing a Psi-control helmet. The Psi-control helmet would allow her pilots to command their jets psychokinetically, replacing the much slower fly-by-wire, computer-aided aircraft control mechanism. Ever vigilant, she also used the new Psi technology to develop secure computer and communication systems for their intelligence community. This is the extent of the developed Psi research that I was allowed to know of and, for security reasons, without any of the details. Although my curiosity runs rampant, it is probably best to keep the information secret, keeping me out of danger.

Eventually, adapting her original plans, Erika invested their money in established, national pharmacy chains—pharmacy chains that I would eventually be compelled to work in. This juxtaposition of fate was not lost on me, and, in retrospect, the irony of it is still painful today. Erika continued to have "plans" for me and would convey them through Ryan. The most viable plan presented was for me to live in France and enroll in a business administration/law double major, with a specialty in international business, and ultimately earn MBA and JD degrees. Why France? French is a global language and many international contracts related to business are written in French. After the five years that it would take to complete this program, I would enter into Erika and Ryan's corporate structure, helping them manage their business endeavors. However, the thought of another five years in school followed by the inevitable, ever-present responsibility and stress involved in their controlled system did not appeal to me. After all, Ryan was my mentor and I had seen firsthand what such a life had done to him. Besides, my French was atrocious at best. I was known to say prostitute instead of pas du tout (not at all, don't mention it) with the inevitable raising of some eyebrows. Even international business can be butchered only so much.

Because I would not make a commitment to this program, Erika once again manipulated the universe around me. I found myself working as a pharmacist at Carlton Prison. The irony of working in a prison was also not lost on me; although, I did work on the correct side of the bars. This plan, however, ended up being a stroke of genius and a boon for me. Imagine, if you will, for just a moment, the most crazy and neurotic student in your high school class. Now, imagine more than five thousand people like that all locked into a single location. Combustible is the best way to describe it. Not only was it an extremely entertaining facility with unusual and bizarre events on a daily basis, but I enjoyed the sense of living on the edge. It was not your typical run-of-the-mill pharmacy environment like that found in retail chains. Rather, it was fertile ground for someone like me, someone with an active imagination and a creative bent. For once, I really liked my job.

Obviously the major function of a prison is to prevent people from getting out, but another major function of a prison is to prevent certain people from getting in—and this was Carlton Prison's function in my case. Putting my relationship with Ryan aside, there were also worries from Erika's security lieutenant about foreign governments potentially capturing and torturing me for what I may be perceived to know regarding Psi technology. Because Erika, through the CIA, already had agents working on the inside of the prison, they were able to do double duty watching me. This enabled Erika to save on the cost of one full security shift; in case you did not know, top-rated gunfighters come at a premium, each with a high price tag.

After a few years of working in the prison, I also picked up extra part-time work at various pharmacies on the outside. I quickly learned to become emotionally numb working all of these hours. If I stayed submerged in this numbness I could "survive." Surfacing meant having my mind and emotions overwhelmed with the thought of working my life away. By keeping insanely busy, I could stave off having to contemplate this stark reality.

About half way through my commitment at Carlton Prison, Ryan met Jan through AA and married her. By my accounting, she was his seventh wife. She was bright and attractive, and he seemed to be very much attached to her, enjoying her company and companionship. Initially, when they moved to Asheville, North Carolina to live, they hit a few rough spots but were able to work things out. Though he assured me that he kept his wives well insulated and far away from his secret worlds, I am sure that adapting to Ryan was no easy task for any of them. Ryan's marriage to Jan meant that our contact was diminished, but the bond of deep friendship remained—we had been through a lot, suffered a lot, and that bond was indelible, no matter what course our lives took, no matter how our lives changed.

When my commitment to stay at the prison for ten years was finally up, Erika once again corralled me with a new plan. I moved to Atlanta, Georgia to work in the same retail pharmacy chains she had funded, the ones I was supposed to have owned. Working what felt like 24/7 in the humidity and sweltering heat of the South, it felt as though the salt from my sweat seeped deep into my wounds, mixing this new irony with the old pain of failure. For more than ten years, I toiled sixty to eighty hours a week working in her retail pharmacies. For me, this really was a prison with my parole date unknown. Not only did I have to stand in a locked box—what we call a pharmacy with all of its security measures—but I had to keep my mind locked in a box too. One can only get so creative when counseling a patient on how to use a suppository. But this was my dharma, my righteous duty to the commitment that I made to Ryan, and I had made a promise to myself to keep this commitment to him.

Pharmacy, for me, became like a dry bone that a dog chews and chews until it splinters in the dog's mouth cutting its cheeks. As the blood begins to seep into the dog's mouth, the dog licks its chops as if thinking to itself, "Mummh, such a juicy bone," in spite of the pain of the lacerations. Pharmacy became my juicy bone. When the dry, repetitive tedium of work became unbearable, I had to make believe that I enjoyed it—I had to create my own illusion. This is how I survived. This is where my hitchhiker's road had taken me.
CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN: RESET

"We've been through a lot together, haven't we?"

Over the years, I watched Ryan slowly change as he aged. Now there was a softening of his demeanor; one could even call it a mellowing. Black cars had been replaced with his red truck. He drove slower and stopped tailgating cars in front of him. His revolver stayed at home more often than not. A noticeable graying to the edge of his hairline ensued, and his boyish features disappeared, replaced by a weathered complexion etched with deep lines. His distinctive blue-gray eyes had faded somewhat, but retained their uncanny quality of seeming truly to be windows to his soul. Nature became more of a sanctuary for him as he spent longer hours amongst the trees and streams, taking delight in feeding wild animals.

Ryan's demeanor toward me changed too. There was a softening and lowering of his voice—a gentleness, if you will. Gone were the days of gruff talk. At times he would just look at me and say, "We've been through a lot together, haven't we?" I would nod in silent understanding. Then he would tease, with a smile, "Besides, you know too much," which had become a phrase of endearment toward me. I would then look him in the eyes and ask, "And you?" A touch of sadness would cross his face and he would nod his head in agreement, without uttering a word. These were the sort of special moments we shared that demonstrated the profound friendship, dedication, and bond between us.

During these years, Ryan not only reminisced about all we had gone through together, but he also shared his dreams with me—both realized and as yet unmet. Early on, he had dreamed of piloting a plane all by himself and taking aerial pictures of the coastline to add to his photographic collection. Later in life, he dreamed of taking a long trip in space where he would have time to read and study as he sailed among the stars. And now, in his sunset years, he dreamed of owning a small house in the country with a white picket fence, a wife to love, a sense of community, and communing with nature. Of course, there would always be his "Sheldon," as he was fond of calling me at times.

In reality, Ryan's house wasn't his small dream home with a white picket fence but rather a split-level duplex on the edge of town where he and his wife Jan lived. Now settled in Ashville, North Carolina, they lived close to the surrounding woods. Wild animals visited their backyard, and Ryan kindly took care of them. Ryan was deeply fond of Jan and demonstrated a special intimacy toward her that he did not have with others. His AA fellowship was strong, and thankfully, it had been many years since he had taken a drink. Living in Atlanta, Georgia, I was only a phone call away, and when we talked I could sense that Ryan was getting closer to realizing his dream.

Every era has its high noon—that moment in time of a decisive confrontation. And we all have that one moment in life when something horrific happens and time seems to suddenly stand still. But first, let us determine whether or not time is something we agree upon. Clock time is merely the reading of a point in time as given by a clock; on the surface, that seems fairly easy to agree upon... but, what is time? Time is defined as a nonspatial continuum in which events—events being change—occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future... and yet, isn't this all simply a matter of perception? Without the human mind or perhaps the minds of other living creatures to perceive change as taking place in a continuum of past, present, and future there may very well be no time. Time may not exist, but be a figment of our perceptions.

My fanciful philosophizing about time screeched to a halt when Ryan telephoned me at work early one morning. "Do you have a TV?" he inquired.

"Why?" I asked.

"You'll see. Just get one and turn it on."

I found an old black-and-white television that the pharmacy manager kept under one of the counters. I pulled it out and turned it on. My jaw went slack and my eyes grew wide in disbelief. I was utterly stunned as I watched the Twin Towers at the World Trade Center burn. It was September eleventh, 2001. With my eyes all but glued to the screen I picked up the phone and asked Ryan in a slow, hushed voice, "This means war, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he replied, "this means war." I could tell by his tone that he was already resigned to that fact.

My sense of time had just been reset—it was suddenly high noon. And as I watched the south tower collapse, time abruptly stood breathlessly still. The pharmacy clock read 9:59 AM.

To the best of my knowledge President Reagan had only received one of Ryan's profanity-laced declarations, but now, President George W. Bush had already received two. "That dumb fuck," Ryan griped later, referring to Bush's reaction as he learned of the attack while sitting with grade school children. "You should have seen the look on his face!" Ryan grumbled, as he described Bush's dumbfounded expression to me. Then, later still, Ryan protested, "That dumb fuck! We told him not to go into Iraq! Now look what he's done!" Although Ryan had a level of praise and admiration for the elder Bush, President George H.W. Bush, he had nothing but contempt for the son. Without a doubt, Ryan and Erika were not happy with the world's balance tilted in such a precarious position.

After the attack on the twin towers, Ryan's role around the world began to increase in the frequency, duration, and import of his missions. Thankfully, through it all, he was able to stay out of harm's way. At one point, Ryan served as a member of a CIA group of psychiatrists who wrote psychological reports on Saddam Hussein. When I asked Ryan what he thought of the man, he put it succinctly, saying, "He's like the high school bully who campaigns his way to the top becoming the class president, and then he decides to take revenge upon his classmates." Later in the war, we discussed the rational of the war strategy. "War plans are very much like business plans," he explained to me. "The military planners have hundreds of major plans just like corporations do. Goals, objectives, strategies, action plans—there's not much difference between the two." There was a plan from the CIA to assassinate Saddam Hussein which was circulated among their three top guns for review. All three told their supervisors that they would accept the mission but only on one condition—that Ryan would go with them. Ryan, however, told them no. I never asked him why, knowing that his reason was private, his own business. Perhaps he thought the plan would not work, or maybe he just sensed it was time for him to step aside. What I do know is that shortly after scrapping that plan came the US invasion of Iraq, and I can't help but feel quite sure that scraping the CIA mission to assassinate Hussein, due to Ryan's refusal to participate, was part of the calculation to invade Iraq.

But I also knew that something was bothering him, gnawing a hole in his spirit. A feeling that something was amiss and unsettled in the world seeped into our conversations. I felt it, the world sensed it, and he knew it. Ryan was correct, I did know too much. Being ever vigilant, I couched my questions carefully, knowing he could not tell me a great deal. Yet, I could sense his restlessness and hear his upset at the government when they left the ordinary individual behind while leveraging the world into debt. He bemoaned the fact that corporate executives were making exorbitant salaries compared to the common worker, and bonuses vastly exceeded executives' accomplishments. These corporations were flush after their feeding frenzy. They had fattened on huge profits leaving little behind in the trough. "What could they possibly be doing to justify this? Where were the governmental safeguards, regulations, and controls?" He would ask. Class warfare was becoming insurmountable—the wealthy classes were waging war and winning—and with the continuing slippage of the middle class, there was a greater possibility of the unthinkable—a revolt by the less fortunate masses.

Remember, Ryan Moran walked among us. He was humble, and he was down to earth. He didn't live in mansions or gated communities but had direct access to the woes and problems of the common person. He shopped at the local grocery store and got his haircuts just down the road. Like you and me, he pumped his own gas at the corner store. Who needs reams of computerized reports and analysis when your experience is firsthand? The worry on a stranger's face, the tremble in someone's voice, or even silence told him a quite lot. These served as barometers indicating ensuing national and global pressures. Little passed by Ryan that he did not notice. With his thumb on the pulse of the country, he too, along with the rest of us, witnessed its rape and was sickened by what he saw.

The answers to my questions came succinctly in a phone conversation that I had with Ryan one winter morning in 2002. We had been making small talk—how Jan was, had he seen many deer in the back yard lately, and the weather was fine here in Atlanta. But we both sensed that we were not quite as focused on here-and-now normalcy as usual; larger issues were bothering us. I decided to change the subject.

"Is the economy out of control?" I asked him, directly.

"Yes. It's headed for a depression, not just a recession," he replied.

"Will there be a revolution?" I asked.

He hesitated for a moment and then said, in a controlled voice, "Yes. There will be a revolution."

"Will it be a bloody and violent revolution?"

"Yes," Ryan answered, in the same controlled manner.

I knew I was treading on thin ice, but I had to know the ending, and so I asked him, "Is there anything that can be done about it—anything to stop the depression and stop the revolution?"

Ryan let out a short sigh over the phone, and then he said, "Our analysis shows that we can control only one of the two—we can stop the depression, and that should prevent the revolution. We cannot let there be both a depression and a revolution at the same time. They would feed upon each other and spiral out of control, being even too much for us to handle. We cannot control the outcome if both events were to occur simultaneously."

"Do you have a plan?" I asked, pushing the boundary.

"Yes," he replied, "we have a plan, and the trend lines show that we will have to do a reset."

"A reset?" I asked. "What does that mean?"

"You will know when the time comes," he replied, enigmatically.

Some weeks went by before Ryan and I spoke again. Meanwhile, the economy grew worse and public anger heightened. But that was not the only bad news I would experience that season.

I heard from Ryan again late that winter. Ryan and Jan were visiting Scottsdale, Arizona. "Howdy," he said. "I had some tooth pain, so I stopped in to see a dentist here. He says that one of my lymph nodes is enlarged."

"Oh, Lord," I said, trying to control my emotions, trying to keep an even keel. I knew by the tone of his voice what he was getting at. I had worked with too many patients in hospital cancer wards, and their common denominator was cigarettes and alcohol. "Now don't get too far out into your future until you get it checked out first, okay?" I advised.

"Yeah, I know. I'll have a biopsy done when I get back to North Carolina. There's a doctor in Asheville who I see," he replied.

"Okay," I said, with an uneasy feeling. "Let me know what happens."

Before too long, bad news came over the phone. "Tongue cancer," Ryan said.

I felt numb as he shared with me the prognosis from his physicians. I gave him support, saying, "We'll fight this together." But the words fell short and sounded hollow. I already knew the usual prognosis. All those years of drinking and smoking had at last exacted their toll upon him, in a tragic and ugly form. Finally, he ended the phone conversation saying, "Well, I'm telling ya, if the tongue goes, I go."

Like finding a four-leaf clover on a New York freeway, he could not have been any luckier. They would not have to cut out his tongue. Chemo and radiation were options for his grade of tumor, but it would be a long and arduous slog to the end. We agreed that I should keep working and not visit much because there would probably be extra expenses that the insurance did not cover. I picked up some extra hours of work to help with Ryan's medical expenses. Erika maintained her position of not forwarding any monies in order to protect the legal status of the trust that was the bedrock of Ryan's corporations. So it began that Ryan started his therapy of chemo and radiation with its associated pain and side effects. The tongue, a delicate and sensitive organ that is so often taken for granted, now became his central focus. He withdrew into a protective boundary, keeping the rest of the world at bay as is to be expected in a life-and-death struggle. I kept our calls to a minimum, allowing him some space and privacy while only visiting him once during this ordeal.

While staying in Asheville, North Carolina, we went together to the cancer treatment clinic. I watched as he sat in an overstuffed chair and received his intravenous medication, watching it flow into his veins. I reflected on the many times that I had mixed such solutions under the hood. Now it was personal, closer to home. He introduced me to his oncologist, a woman in her late thirties who was well-credentialed and equally well-spoken. I do not know what role Erika might have played in her selection if any. I wanted to call the doctor into a back room for a discussion, explaining to her who Ryan really was and letting her know why it was so important that he received the best care. I quickly dropped this idea, knowing that Ryan would be furious if he ever found out. He was not the type to garner special favors for himself. Rather, he merely sat in the room among the other patients taking his turn. Besides, how does one explain Ryan to someone else without looking exceedingly strange or delusional at best? In the end, I imagine that Ryan's oncologist simply knew him as one of her many patients, nothing more and nothing less.

At night, Jan and I would sit with Ryan in the living room as he dealt with the pain, nausea, and burning in his throat. It was during one of these nightly sessions when he called me aside from Jan, saying, "Listen, if I die from this, I want you to continue making your payments, understand?" Ryan was referring to the commitment that I had made to him when we first discussed the Psi-control Switch at La Champagne back in Mapleton—that I would pay him whatever he wanted as long as the project got done.

"Yes," I replied, and then asked, "For how many more years?"

"Ten more years," he said.

I quietly mulled this over in my mind and then said, "Okay, I'll do that." I was relieved that I finally had a financial endpoint in sight. "Who should I give the money to if you die?" I asked.

"Jan. Just give it to Jan," he stated.

"Okay." I nodded in agreement.

Ryan momentarily looked about to make sure that no one else was listening. "Those companies that Erika runs down south for me on the island are now up to thirty-four divisions.

"Thirty-four!" I exclaimed, in amazement at how large his corporate empire had grown. "Christ! Do you realize how big that is? That's double the size from when we first met!"

"Yeah," he said, with a grin. "But that's not all. Your Psi-control Switch project is now at a divisional level."

"What?" I exclaimed, while searching his face for any signs of doubt. "You gotta be kidding? You mean it's grown into the size of a division?" I asked.

"That's right," he replied. "That's now one of the biggest projects around the world."

"Wow!" I uttered, feeling totally caught off guard. "That's spectacular," I added, still trying to take the news in. My mind was numb. I tried to envision the Psi-control Switch project's size and importance to the world; it had been years since we last talked about it. A division is one way to delineate the various aspects of an organization's whole enterprise under broad headings. For security reasons, I have never known just how big a division is, but according to Ryan, it is huge! Finally, I asked, "Any idea when I'll get paid out on that project?"

"Don't know," he replied. "It's up to Erika now. She's supposed to convene a committee sometime in the future to figure out when and how much. You know how she is; she has her own sense of time."

"Oh, great," I moaned, "I'll probably be dead by then." We each broke into a small laugh realizing that there may be a grain of truth to what I had just said.

A few months later, Ryan called me and confided in a sorrowful voice, "I had some problems with Jan drinking again."

"Oh, no," I said sadly.

"Yeah... I had to take the keys away from her tonight so she wouldn't hurt herself," he replied.

"Is she still going to her AA meetings?" I asked.

"Yeah, but I don't think it's working with all the stress around here now."

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

Ryan let out a small sigh and then said, "Don't know. I'm just going to wait and see what happens."

"Ryan, that's not good for you, especially with all that chemo and the stress that you're going through," I told him.

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you want to leave her?" I asked, directly.

"No, not right now. I'll stay," he replied.

Over the passing months we had this similar conversation a few more times. Finally, I tried to persuade him that it would be best for him if they separated until he was better. "Nah," he told me.

"Why not?" I asked. "I don't want you getting drunk over this, it could kill you—especially now," I admonished him.

He hesitated a bit and then said, in a quiet voice, "I love her."

"Oh...," I said. I was initially taken aback by those three simple words. I knew how devoted Ryan was to Jan, but this was the first time that Ryan had mentioned love regarding any of the women he had previously had relationships with. Clearly, Ryan's feelings toward Jan were deeply genuine and profound. "Now I understand," I said, quietly.

I never brought up the issue of Jan leaving again.
CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT: WONDERMENT

"A friend is someone who is coming in, when everyone else is going out."

It was a cause for celebration. Ryan passed the one-year mark and his cancer was in remission. At least one battle of the war was won. He telephoned me to let me know how he was doing. "Oye, Sheldon! I feel a lot better," he told me, "and I even lost some weight."

"Now, you're making me jealous," I teased.

"Yeah, sure, it's a great weight loss plan," Ryan joked, and then grew serious. "But listen, I still have a couple of problems. The doc put me on antibiotics today for a respiratory infection that keeps coming back, and I still feel depressed."

"Yeah, you'll probably have an infection for a while because of the chemo," I explained. "Say, how much Celexa are you on now?"

"Forty milligrams," he replied.

"And the Ativan, are you still taking that for anxiety?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Tell your doctor that she can go up to sixty milligrams on the Celexa with no problem. That should help with the depression, okay?"

"Okay, I'll let her know," he replied, and then added, "Hey, I'd like to pay you a visit in a few weeks, you know, like the old days."

"Great! Like the old days!" I exclaimed. "I'll look forward to that. Besides, it's been boring around here without you."

"Yeah," he laughed, "we'll see if we can't change that."

A few weeks later, I was startled by the phone ringing early in the morning. I answered it while still emerging from a deep sleep. "Hello—?" I asked, groggily.

"Ira! It's Jan," the voice on the other end of the line greeted me. Then, I heard her crying.

"Jan, what's wrong?" I asked, as she began to sob.

"Ryan... Ryan's dead!" She wailed.

"Dead?! What do you mean 'dead'?" I asked, not quiet comprehending the news. Surely, I must still be dreaming, I thought.

"He's... dead," she repeated, between sobs. "I found him dead this morning, in bed."

A wave of fear for my life shuddered through my body. My first thought was of a security breach—if someone got to Ryan, they could also get to me.

"Are you okay?" I asked, collecting myself.

"Yes," she replied, quietly weeping.

"Are you sure?" I asked, again.

"Yes," she assured me, as I heard her calming down just a bit.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts as I was stunned and did not want to believe what I was hearing. Finally, I asked her, "What happened?"

She was sobbing quietly now and explained, "I found him dead in the bed with his bottle of Ativan. He took too much of his Ativan. I called the police and they've come over."

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, remorsefully, "Not his Ativan!"

"I have to go now," Jan said, "the coroner just arrived at the door."

"Okay, I understand," I said. "Just give me a call later when you're done, okay?"

"Okay," she assured me, and then hung up the phone.

I sat for a few minutes shocked and confused, trying to make sense out of what had just happened. Not Ryan, my mind kept saying. Not Ryan... he couldn't have died. Then, intuitively, I picked up the phone and dialed the operator. When she came on the line, I explained calmly, in a deliberate moment of clarity, "I have to make a very important phone call. Please, just stay on the line until I am done, okay? I have to make a call without dialing and without actually having someone on the other end."

"Okay," she agreed.

I hesitated for a moment because of the novelty of not dialing any numbers and only having an operator listening.

"Erika," I finally said into the mouthpiece. I knew that my phone call would be monitored by her security team through their satellites, but I had no other way to contact her. "This is Ira," I said. I spoke to only silence on the other end of the line, "Ryan is dead... but then, you probably already know that. I will continue to do what he said. I am now in your service." With that, I ended the call.

"Thank you, operator," I said, quietly, and hung up. I did not wait for a reply. I knew that Erika would never respond, nor would anyone else.

The stark reality of Ryan's death suddenly came crashing down on me. After hanging up the phone I broke down and cried, the sobs flooding from my heart. After a time, when the tears simply would no longer flow, I sat in a prayerful meditation asking God to please guide Ryan's soul.

Almost no one ever dies from taking Ativan. Later, I learned that Ryan's physician had decided to stop his Celexa instead of increasing the dose as I had advised. In its place, she put him on Paxil. The problem is that sometimes it takes weeks for Paxil medication to become effective. In the intervening days I am sure that he became tortured by the depression.

Imagine his immensely brilliant, creative, and analytical mind like a giant hard drive, spinning and processing at an extremely high rate with its own momentum while tracking and analyzing various series of sophisticated operations. Then came the cancer, and for whatever reason his mind was thrown off course. Wobbling and twisting outside its normal parameters, he tried to control it, to get it back on track, but he could not. In desperation, seeking relief, he turned to the Ativan at a higher dose than prescribed. But this is a medication that causes respiratory depression. Although Ativan by itself rarely ever causes death, in conjunction with Ryan's lung infection, which also caused respiratory depression, it killed him. It was the combination of the two together—a larger-than-prescribed dose of his Ativan and the respiratory depression that brought him to his demise. At least I was consoled in part by knowing that he did not suffer a long and drawn out death. But it seemed small consolation for such an end to such a phenomenal life, such a great soul. The Great and Mighty Ryan Moran, my dear friend, was gone and for such a sad reason.

I was so honored to give the eulogy at his funeral. Although I could not do justice to this great man as my mere words inevitably fell short, I tried my best. It warmed my heart to see so many people there. Most probably did not know who he really was, only having glimpsed the few pieces that he allowed them to see. But then again, each had their own bond with him, and just that small connection touched each of them profoundly. Although I doubt it, perhaps even Erika was there. I do not know, because I would not have been able to recognize her even if she had been in attendance. I felt sure that his death was extremely hard on her too.

Earlier, Jan had shown me two pairs of his cowboy boots, other than the pair he wore in his coffin. I took one pair and gave her the other, expressing how valuable they were because they embodied his spirit. She brought one of his boots to the funeral, and filled it with long-stemmed flowers, and placed it next to his coffin. Next, she took a red bandanna and tied it around his neck as a fitting tribute to his inner cowboy.

As those attending the funeral filed past Ryan's coffin, saying their goodbyes I stood among them. Then, it was my turn. Seeing Ryan lying there, the red bandana about his neck, the cowboy boots, his blue-gray eyes beneath closed lids... it wrenched my heart. "Oye... Sheldon," I whispered quietly, tears catching in my throat. I gave Ryan's cold hands a squeeze and planted a brief kiss upon his cheek. It was all I could do to keep from sobbing. I moved past the coffin, and the next in line silently said their goodbyes.

Ryan's was an existential ecstasy of knowing who he was, what his purpose was, and his place in time. At night, when I look up at all those stars in wonderment and watch them shine in an overwhelming vastness above, I think of him sailing among them, the ripple of his spirit touching all. While holding back the next Great War, he sacrificed and suffered so that we may have a different destiny and live in peace. He used to say to me, "A friend is someone who is coming in, when everyone else is going out." I was fortunate to have had such a rare and gifted friend as Ryan Moran. He truly was a friend who had come into my life while others were going out.
CHAPTER TWENTY–NINE: LEGACY

"Pigs grow fat, but hogs get slaughtered."

There is that fine line between fiction and nonfiction where the mind begins to blur reality. Fiction is the last line of defense against reality where we can hide from the truth. But rest assured, Ryan's story is real and true. Like the Indian story of Nagalina, you will have to cross that line between fiction and nonfiction for yourself. Perhaps this great warrior should have died in a hail of bullets or a thunderous crash of his jet. This is, at least, what we tend to imagine as a final, fitting, and glorious ending. But that is not what happened. And yet, when the emotions have been profoundly hurt, the mind can play strange tricks. For a couple of years I would imagine that this was really just one of the organization's ploys, that the man lying in state in the coffin was a stand-in of sorts with Ryan still very much alive and dispatched on a special mission. Someday he would walk back into my life. Finally, however, I would remember how I had held his cold, lifeless hands as he lay in that coffin, and how I kissed his pale cheek goodbye. Like Nagalina, I too needed to mature and face life on its own terms, to realize we weren't children anymore, and to realize that death is an inevitable part of life. Finally, I was able to let the illusion go that Ryan would ever return, and I moved on with my life.

Ryan had trained me well, and in the following years I knew that the time for change was near. When I saw Ted Kennedy embrace Barack Obama and not Hillary Clinton as his favorite presidential candidate, it became clear—the button had been pushed, the reset was on its way. Oh, how I wished that Ryan was still around to see it. Then, knowing their ways, I watched the political and economic processes unfold as if I had written the screenplay myself. Nine months before the election, through the actions of Ryan's organization, there was a contrived oil shortage, and the price of oil skyrocketed to new heights. Erika, now the ultimate gatekeeper to the world's energy supply, controlled the flow of oil. Although oil is not the only means that she has to bring about change, it certainly is one of the most efficient and effective. This time, Erika implemented the shortage of oil, obeying Ryan's corporate mandate, as a means to prevent the next big war from occurring. Her corporate analysis from years earlier forecasted the coming of a long-term depression fostered by greed and a myopic ideological view. A subsequent world war would metastasize from its disastrous ruins, consuming the planet. Erika would not let this happen. As if by magic, in the public's view, there was a precipitous drop in the price of oil just three months before the election. But the shockwaves had already coursed throughout the global economy, rippling around the world. The financial buttresses that had propped up a false economy were removed, and like a house of cards, the top floors began to crumble. I watched as the markets tumbled, and I felt the ubiquitous fear that their freefall generated. As the markets came crashing down, people grew wide-eyed in disbelief, watching their savings vanish, their businesses close, jobs sublimate. Wondering just how bad the global economies might ultimately be, people braced themselves for the inevitable bottom. An economic abyss yawned, ready to swallow lifetimes of work encompassing so many peoples' dreams. But like a controlled reaction Ryan's people accomplished an economic reset, bringing us back from the brink with a screeching halt just in the nick of time from an otherwise certain economic disaster. Eventually a newer and more resilient foundation would be built, paving the way to a better future.

I will not paint a bright and sunny picture of what has happened. People are still struggling economically, and there is much more left to do to stabilize the economy. These types of changes take years to accomplish. The economy is like a large oil tanker that needs to change its direction—the tanker's pilot plans miles in advance what maneuver to make to bring about a smooth transition in its course. That said, look around and see how the economic collapse and the controlled landing that Ryan had orchestrated through his organization compares to the crash of 1929-1939. "But, banks were not insured back then. Therefore, peoples' savings simply sublimated— vanished!" you say. While that is true, other forces were at work during this last economic crisis that would have generated equally devastating effects on world economies—people would have been jumping out of windows to their deaths as in the crash of 1929. Yes, that was a crash, not a smooth landing like the one we just had. It was a depression, not a recession, which meant there was no economic growth for ten years. Back then, the unemployment rate hovered at twenty-five percent, and it became a worldwide depression—most of the world struggled to survive. This is where we were recently heading had Ryan's organization, with Erika at the helm, not intervened. Finally, there were no nuclear weapons during the Great Depression—the consequences today would be much more horrific should a world war erupt. As we have learned over time, there is no war to end all wars, and nuclear weapons could bring about the annihilation of the planet as a whole.

I do not know what role President Barack Obama or his administration have had in staving off a depression. Before Ryan passed away we could meet or have a phone conversation to discuss such matters. Now I no longer have access to his counsel. I suspect that the President knows that Ryan's organization exists in some fashion, but like the Presidents prior to his administration he may only have a glimpse of their role in world affairs. I assume that, like me, the world around him has been manipulated to some extent to bring about change. The information that he receives from the CIA and other sources—the politicians around him, the counsel of his staff, and even his friends—can have a large influence on the decisions that he makes. What forces have come to bear on them, I also do not know. I, too, saw the stimulus packages, the corporate bailouts, and the reorganization of the financial instruments used in the business world to aid in this soft landing. How much about the origins of economic change the President knows directly, I do not know. I, like you, am now at the mercy of the newspapers, computer blogs, and television's ubiquitous talking heads in order to figure it all out for myself. How it will play out in the future, I cannot say, but my hope is for the best.

After the orchestrated economic collapse, with a collective sigh of cautious relief, people were able to take in a fresh breath, regroup, and carefully embark on another day. While the future was not as bright as it had once seemed, everyone realized, in retrospect, that the markets were falsely propped up and artificially high through perilous business practices, lack of governmental regulation of banks and corporations, and by lobbyists' bribes. We now all realize that something needs to be done to remedy such longstanding, festering problems. At the very least, our eyes have been opened.

Ryan was fond of quoting an old business saying, "Pigs grow fat, but hogs get slaughtered." A hog is a domesticated pig that has grown so large—over 120 pounds—that it is now called a hog and is considered fit for slaughter. America's elite had indulged and grown fat like a domesticated pig that was now, like a hog, ready for slaughter, ready to have its overindulgent life brought to a violent close. Most people do not realize how close we came in those fragile days to a bloody and violent end. People witnessing the exorbitant greed at the top of the corporate world were not willing to tolerate much more. America still has the biggest and most powerful economic engine, but if it were to stutter and stall, so too would the rest of the world.

When out of work and out of hope, men everywhere pick up their guns as their remedy, and in the face of overt greed, they endeavor to reclaim what they know is rightfully theirs. When people have little left to lose, countries could have had rivers of blood flowing in their streets. Everyone knows that worldwide economic collapse together with political instability is the perfect equation for the next world war. Yes, we all came that close. But contemplating the unthinkable is what Ryan was all about. In the end, I was grateful that our country and the world had remained intact. I offered a silent prayer to God and then silently thanked Ryan, Erika and the members of their organization for their service to the world. They had saved us once again. Ryan—through his wisdom, foresight, and sacrifice—had established the organization. Erika, by virtue of her superior guidance, had set the organizational direction for their mission. It was the loyal, hard work of countless others in the organization who had accomplished the mission. Together, they had staved off total economic collapse and an inevitable World War III.

Many years have now passed since his death, and I sit in wonderment thinking about it all—about his life, his work, and our journey together. His widow, Jan, stopped drinking shortly after he passed away. She is now in a new and strong relationship with someone else. We reminisce on the phone at times, talking about what Ryan was like and how his presence touched us both in so many ways. Having finally paid off my commitment to Ryan—early, at that—I am now free to do as I wish. As for my fortune and payout on the Psi-control Project? Well, maybe sometime in the future, according to Ryan. It is in Erika's presiding hands now—under the dictates of Ryan's corporate mandates—as is the rest of the world. She tried to pay me once with the retail pharmacy chain idea, but that did not work out. Good or bad, a hitchhiker accepts the way of the road—an acceptance of life on life's terms. What matters most to me is that the Psi-control project was accomplished and resides in just and moral hands. Besides, I do have Ryan's boots, and they are worth a king's ransom.

Think about it—through his power, he is the singular person who has most organized and unified this world into what it is today, a world with the future potential to be completely united as one. He is the one man who has done more toward this end than anyone else. That is his legacy, and a wondrous legacy it is. I feel privileged to hold his boots, the boots of the world's most powerful man.

Even today, I am amazed at the size and scope to which that Psi-control project has grown. As the originator of Psi-control technology, it is comforting to know that it is part of the glue that helps to hold the world together. Slowly, the gate is opening, and technologically we are much closer to the future than most people think.

Now, having gotten on a bit in years, at my age, I think that Ryan had it right. I look forward to a small house near the woods where I can interact with and enjoy the wonders of nature. I seek, again, someone to love, to share a life with me. With a community of friends about, I want joy and laughter to fill my heart as we pursue our common goals. Perhaps, in the end, his dream was not all that far away from mine. Maybe we had become very much alike after all.

But when it is summertime, and I feel the sun's heat upon my back, and the wind kicks dust up into the air with that certain earthy scent, I think again about heading out to the freedom of the road. Hitchhiking—that metaphor for life—is in my blood. With my "Anywhere" sign at the ready, I feel the wanderlust within, that primal instinct that beckons me to see the world afresh. There is always a new adventure to be had, something different just over the hill.

Spread your wings and set your sails—it is time once again to explore.
EPILOGUE

"He did good in the world."

Yes, I know what you want. You want proof—unmistakable, pure, absolute, perfect proof—convincing you that this is all true; you want proof that you can touch with your hands, see with your eyes, and kick with your feet to make sure that it is real. After all, who would not want to peer over the "big black wall"? Yet, I have told you all that I can, and I have no more to say because... it would be nice to live another day. The only further proof I can offer to you is simply to ask that you imagine what the world would be like if Ryan Moran had never been here. It would be far worse off—far, far worse off. Believe me, it would be sheer annihilation. That is proof enough.

A god he is not, but a man of vision and courage he was. Even the most powerful man in the world is not capable of controlling everything. The planet is too vast, too complex. Even Ryan's organization is not capable of doing that. No, there will not be a magic wand to solve all of the world's problems. There will still remain the inevitable regional wars, skirmishes, and battles and holocausts. Rather, the major focus of Ryan's organization will continue to be on stopping the unthinkable—a World War III.

Though noble in character, brilliant of mind, and good hearted, Ryan Moran was also a flawed man in some ways. He had the disease of alcoholism from which he suffered greatly in his younger years. He also took too much of his prescribed medication, bringing about his own untimely death. Everyone wants their superhero to have a clean and pressed cape billowing in the wind. But this is not how it was.

Let us not let this detract from his accomplishments. Ryan O'Connell Moran was a humble and unassuming man of great stature, and he became my hero. Ryan and his legacy are a part of your history, and if you like, he is your hero too.

Through his organization, he created and set into operation the first template for a worldwide government as it successfully broke away from control of the nation states. This was a control switch of unprecedented proportions—nation's governments are no longer in ultimate control of world affairs; Ryan's organization governs the dynamics of national and global interests. Regardless of whether you can see it or acknowledge it, this is the true role and stature that his organization currently maintains. His organization's role is for shaping peace in the world.

Ryan Moran died in 2003. He was fifty-eight years old. His ashes have been scattered in the rivers and lakes that he so loved.

I hereby suggest that we proclaim the day of the first full moon in June to be Ryan Moran Day. This day, in the month of his birth, can be a celebration for all of the world's people, regardless of nationality, to honor him for his accomplishments. This day should be a worldwide day of remembrance and celebration that commemorates the bitter sacrifices and suffering that he underwent for all of us as he rode roughshod over tyranny. He brought about a new world order, moving us forward toward peace and prosperity without the specter of a worldwide war. Through the vast swath of governance that his organization still imparts to all of the countries of the world, he was able to accomplish great works and unite us more than any other person. He did good in the world. Although just a man, akin to us but with extraordinary talents, in our time of need he was there through his organization to prevent a global economic depression and stop the next world war. Those who knew Ryan and worked beside him revel in his undertakings as the world's protector and as a man who truly sowed the seeds of a more united planet. He lives on through his transnational organization—his wisdom still guiding our collective destiny today.

Let us celebrate the life of The Great and Mighty Ryan Moran—a life that allows us exceptional tranquility and bounty. May his vision live on forever in our hearts, minds, and deeds.
