Part Eight

 

He opened his eyes, and felt the wind blowing across his head. He looked down and realized that he was on his motorcycle, riding down an open, lonely stretch of road. The road was long and flat and stretched before him all the way to the horizon, under a beautiful blue sky. On either side vast fields of what he decided was wheat waved to him as he passed. The day was perfect! It was neither cold nor hot, and the wind in his face was utterly refreshing. It was perhaps the finest sensation he could think of, and it was his to experience.

The engine throbbed beneath him, as he played the throttle. It was too wonderful a day not to want to go fast. He couldn’t recall having ever felt so free! The sky, the wind, they were his brothers now. Where had that thought come from? It may have been the words of a poem he’d heard somewhere long ago. Now, it became apparent to him. He was in northern Nebraska. This was the road trip he’d taken when he was twenty-three.

He had wanted to visit California, and so packed up whatever he could fit onto his bike and quit his job to be free and go see the Pacific ocean, a place he’d only seen on television or in pictures. God, that road trip was the time of his life! He was on his own, free to do as he pleased. Free of everything except his own desire to make it to the coast; a desire that had no set time schedule. So he was free to take his time, and that is exactly what he did, deciding to take back country highways and avoid the pollution and congestion of the cities along the way.

He eased back on the throttle, and down-shifted, slowing the motorcycle, eventually brining it to a stop along the gravel shoulder of the road. He shut the engine off, lowered the kickstand, and sat there for a short time, listening to the almost-silence of the wind blowing through the wheat fields. There was no other sound. Just the wind. Peace. He felt utter and total peace just now. Stepping off the bike, gravel crunched quietly beneath his boots.

He looked back the way he had come from. The road went as far as he could see, eventually becoming lost in the haze on the distant road. He saw no other vehicles, or people. The direction in which he was headed was identical.

Above him the sky had puffy, fair-weather clouds, and somewhere a bird cried. The wind blew steady, but not strong, causing the wheat fields on either side to hiss, a wonderful sound. He closed his eyes and inhaled the fresh air, feeling it leave a cold trail down his throat and into his lungs. It was so incredibly good.

He leaned back against his bike, reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar – one of the few vices he allowed himself – and lit it. The smoke tasted good in his mouth, as he looked out at the fields, their ocean of yellowish-brown stalks waving gently. This was unreal. He was actually here! Or at least he felt like he was. And what made it all the better was that he was not only able to re-live it, but he was able to interact with it. Take part in it. To do things differently.

Back when he took this trip for real, he had never stopped along the side of a lonely, dusty Nebraska highway to have a smoke. Yet here he was, doing just that.

This was unbelievable. He hadn’t felt so good since they stuck him in that damned metal can. It was far better than he could have ever imagined. It really was just like he was here. He remembered when he planned this route. He chose it not only to avoid traffic, but also because some of the areas this route passed through, were the last of their kind; untouched. Unspoiled. War, crime, population explosions – they had all taken their toll on America over the earlier part of the twenty-first century, until the new laws, new judicial system and new enforcement techniques had gotten things back in hand. But even now, as the country struggled to rebuild itself, there were very few places like this left. He had read about them, but rarely seen them.

But how would this end? When would it end? He knew that he didn’t want it to end. If it could just go on like this, that would be ideal! He could go on to California, to the ocean. He could even stop in Wyoming like he wanted to the first time. He could just stay here, lost in his memories, never having to go back to the harsh reality of his miserable existence.

But wait, he thought to himself. That idea was completely ludicrous. He couldn’t stay here. This was nowhere. Nothing. Just a series of electrical and chemical impulses traveling across synapses between the billions of neurons in his brain, letting him recall the time he’d actually traveled this way. And somehow, it had morphed itself into an almost dream-like state that he was actually able to interact with. It was an incredible experience.

But he knew he couldn’t stay here. There was no here to stay in.

But what if he could keep this memory/dream going? He could theoretically ride his motorcycle all the way to California, savoring every sight, every smell, every sensation along the way. And perhaps, if it were possible, he could even create some new memories.

But how long would it take? It had taken him days to reach the coast in reality. Would it take as long here? Or was time here, much like that in a dream; hideously warped and distorted, so that he could re-live the entire journey in the span of a thirty-minute dream?

He shook his head, trying to comprehend all the possibilities and indeed the impossibilities that this presented. And all of it was pure theory, in any event, because he truly wasn’t even sure how it all worked. He realized he’d been staring at the ground, and not really even seeing it, lost in his own thoughts. Daydreaming within a dream. The thought amused him and he chuckled to himself, looking out again at the amber sea before him. Amber waves of grain, he remembered the lyrics to a very old song.

This would take some serious thought, and that was something he didn’t want to do right now. He was enjoying the entire experience too much to get bogged down with a thousand probabilities and questions. He felt the wind ruffle his hair. He felt it. God this was amazing.

He placed his cigar between his lips and inhaled, but drew no smoke. He looked at its end and realized that the fire within had gone out.  Feeling around in his pockets he came across the lighter. He opened it, flicked the wheel and a satisfying bluish-yellow flame erupted. He held the fire to the end of the cigar, and puffed, attempting to draw the flame into the tobacco, a difficult process given the breezy conditions today. The wind-whipped flame danced and flickered, and abruptly played across his finger, singing it, causing him to yelp.

He sat upright, panting, eyes wide open. The blue sky was gone, replaced by darkness. The gentle roar of the immense wheat fields, by the quiet hum of the OSO’s electronics and machinery. Beneath him was not the cool, steel frame of his motorcycle, but the crisp, sterile, white sheets of his bed.

He strained to see anything in the darkness. He turned his head, and felt the tubes protruding from his nose, at which he pulled them out, letting them drop to the bed.

He swung his legs over the side, letting his feet touch the cold, metal floor, and then simply sat there, staring off into the blackness. He was here in the OSO. Wasn’t he? Maybe he was really on a dusty back road in Nebraska, and only imagined he was on board the OSO. Which was real and which was in his mind?

His hands groped around in the darkness, feeling the familiar shape of his bed, the soft sheets beneath him. They felt real. But then, everything about Nebraska had felt real too.

Feeling overwhelmed by this back-and-forth train of thought, he abruptly stood up, and commanded “Lights.” And then, instantly realizing his mistake, he shouted “Belay that! Lights fifty-percent.”

Slowly, dimly, the lights came on, and he began to pace, trying to sort this all out. The more he paced, the more confident he became that the OSO was reality, and the wheat fields in Nebraska had been imagined. Or was “remembered” a more appropriate word? No matter. Arguing with himself over semantics was a waste of time. The issue here was to determine what was real and what was not.

“Computer, how long were the lights in here, off just now?” He looked at the scrolling message board by his bed, waiting for the emotionless response. He was shocked as he saw the numbers scroll by: 02:34:38.

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My cousin Jack can speak to beans. That's right.... Jack and the beans talk