BIT-STRING ENTRY #10
We’re cruising back down the boulevard in my Ural 71, hitting every red light, a Parking Enforcement Officer making an appearance every third block to stick it to some hapless citizen. Control, cite and collect – just one of many petty enslavement rituals in this part of the world.
Jeremiah sits slumped in my sidecar, paying the penalty for his toxic behavior earlier today, yet still mentally on alert.
“So, you can hire me… just like that?” he asks.
“If I can rearrange your class schedule, I can certainly create an employment opportunity thru Student Services. Question: Have you ever mopped a floor, scrub a toilet?”
He hesitates, shakes his head.
“Well, there’s always a first time,” I tell him. “My advice: approach Custodial Services as a Zen practice, every foul chore an exercise in keeping you locked into the present moment. In other words, don’t skip any corners.” Now that I think of it, I should get him a campus pool pass, too. Water is a transcendent medium. Jeremiah looks down at his class schedule again, bumping on “Introductory Psycho-biology” and “Integrative Approaches to Human Biology & Society.” I explain that these courses will help him grasp an overall understanding of the evolution of Human Behavior and how the enslavement program fits into the scheme of things. BTW, all textbooks will be provided free of charge. I’ve managed to accumulate quite a stash over the past few semesters.
“Maybe I should just drop out,” Jeremiah says. “College, it’s just not… I’m just not into it anymore.”
“You never were to begin with,” I reply. He shrugs, acknowledging the truth in that. “Listen, for most of you, college is just an extension of the parental womb. Sure, some of you have a direction, a goal – a major. But a lot of you have a scholastic agenda based on parental or social expectations. For you, that’s over now. From hereon out, your agenda on campus has two primary objectives: one, to recover that sense of fucking wonder you’ve lost along the way. Number two: to do whatever it takes to expose and eliminate “The Program.”
Jeremiah shakes his head: “I can’t even… This is just too bizarre…”
I glide up to the next red light. “Look at me.” Slowly, he turns to me. “Again, let’s break it down. Your brain has the ability to encode speech. The Program has corrupted that code, and therefore your inner dialogue. The same dialogue that convinced you to try and drown yourself in that sea called despair.”
He seems to grock what I’m saying.
“What you saw at death’s door, that wasn’t a mirage. That was the post-fatal drippings of an embedded neurochemical malware lurking inside your gray matter.”
“Thought control,” he mumbles.
“Exactly. Genetically embedded. Physically undetectable. Historically violent. Sociologically dysfunctional. An internalized Auschwitz that will ultimately spell lights out for your entire species.”
The light turns green. I wait until we make eye contact again. “You need to understand the roots and repercussions of all this, Jeremiah. That’s why I signed you up for these classes.”
“Okay. Whatever. So where to now?”
I find a parking spot near a shop on Main Street that sells yoga mats and clothing. “Yoga 101,” I say. Again, his eyes fall to his revised class schedule.
"Seriously?”
I let him know that yoga is not for pussies. Neither is the “Mindfulness Practice & Theory” class he’s now enrolled in. Hopefully, the benefits of these classes will help him navigate the challenges that loom ahead.
“So, what if we find this program?” he asks. “Then what?”
“Then we’ll know better what we’re dealing with, won’t we? And how to eliminate it.”
“Save the world, right?” he says, voice dripping with cynicism.
“Absolutely.”
I’m not kidding, and he knows it. A long silence follows after I shut down the Ural’s engine. Again, he considers bolting from my sidecar looney bin.
“Who are you?”
“I told you. A Custodian. Soon to be you’re Supervisor.”
“No, I mean… really?”
“As I said, just consider me an Empath from another space and time.”
“An empath? What the hell is that?”
“Look it up,” I volley back. “Underneath all that shit you’ve grown to believe about yourself, you’re actually one, too, Jeremiah.”
He looks away, muttering “Stop calling me that. Nobody ever calls me that.”
“What?”
“Jeremiah.”
“Why not? You’re on your way to something biblical here.”
Again, he seems ready to bolt. So, I sweeten the deal.
“How does $20 bucks an hour sound?”