Chapter Eight Eric
Chapter Eight
Eric
N avigating the baroque curves of the narrow streets in the Hollywood Hills was an ordeal. If the freeways were arteries, the streets in the hills were capillaries: thin, twisty, tenuous.
Right now, a Porsche was madly careening downhill, and the driver clearly had no intention of letting Jane pass, even though she had the right-of-way.
How many people were aware they were brazenly violating the rules of the road and how many were simply plain ignorant?
She pulled over so the Porsche could barrel past.
During her course of cognitive behavioral therapy, Jane’s therapist asked if she might be “catastrophizing”—anticipating the worst possible outcome.
The catastrophic scenario could end up happening, but was that the exception or the rule?
Jane pondered this. True, major catastrophes were perhaps few and far between.
But there were so many micro-catastrophes happening all the time.
Jane tried to take a step back. Core cognitive behavioral theory holds that emotions followed thoughts. It made perfect sense: if you framed things the right way, then everything wouldn’t seem so potentially cataclysmic.
She tried to imagine that the selfish asshole in the Porsche was rushing a sick infant to the hospital; that would explain his rude, aggressive driving, and elicit feelings of sympathy for his paternal anguish.
Easier said than done! This scenario was swiftly eclipsed by a more likely one: the driver was in a hurry to get to his corner office, where he oversaw exploitative real estate developments, swindled impoverished people, and terrorized his underlings.
So much for cognitive behavioral therapy!
When Jane tried to objectively assess her life, it seemed enviable: excellent health, reasonably good looks, a privileged, upper middle-class background.
Yet so much of her interior monologue was critical, directed both inward and outward.
It was like a continual self-estrangement, which is why, after careful deliberation and a lot of googling, she decided to try the San Pedro ritual that Kelsey recommended.
She learned from Michael Pollan’s book How to Change Your Mind that ayahuasca, the botanical drug of the moment, was much more ubiquitous than San Pedro, a cactus containing the psychotropic ingredient mescaline.
San Pedro was intense, but not hallucinogenic, and therefore less daunting than ayahuasca, which was supposed to be akin to an LSD trip.
She had never really enjoyed doing drugs.
The few times she tried Molly in college, she found herself fighting the effects.
The idea of losing control was terrifying and she ended up spending whatever mental capacity that wasn’t hijacked by the drug willing herself not to do anything ridiculous. It was entirely unfun.
This same impulse to fight the high was why Jane never enjoyed weed, a point of contention with Teddy, who thought it might “mellow her out.” She also avoided the stimulants offered by her many friends who had gotten ADHD diagnoses.
Jane had no attention deficit; if anything, she had an attention surplus.
The notion that being more alert would feel good was preposterous.
But San Pedro, well—it was, as Kelsey had said, supposed to open one’s heart. So why not give it a whirl? If Jane was going to change, she needed to push herself to try new things outside of her comfort zone.
It had taken place two days ago. On Saturday, she got up at the crack of dawn and took an Uber to an overbuilt house in Brentwood, which, on the outside, looked like a beach cottage on steroids; inside, it was decorated with oversized blond wood furniture smothered by overstuffed cushions in bright floral fabrics.
The shaman was an Englishwoman named Rima, an expatriate with a plummy accent who lived in Peru and traveled the world performing the San Pedro ritual.
She had a surprisingly sensible haircut, chic glasses, and wore a flowing white dress.
As per the instructions, Jane had fasted the night before and brought along some “yummy foods”—grapes and cheese and some crackers—for nibbling once the San Pedro had had a go at her empty stomach.
With a serene smile, Rima pointed Jane toward the giant farmhouse table already laden with breads and cheeses and chocolates and fruits.
As she added her offering, Jane glanced around at her fellow travelers.
There were about twenty of them, a largely affluent crowd dressed in expensive leisure wear.
A smaller subset wore aggressively unfashionable clothing, garments that would have been at home in a South American craft fair—lots of weaves, beads, even a feather or two.
And there was the all-but-inevitable white dude with dreadlocks who reeked of patchouli, which smelled like sweetened compost and turned her stomach.
The assembled group was asked to sit in a circle.
Rima welcomed them, thanked them for their “donations,” then went over what to expect on a San Pedro journey.
Journey was one of those cringe-inducing words; everyone was endlessly talking about their ongoing journeys.
It sounded like little more than an effort to elevate banal lives into some kind of profound and exotic quest. But here she was: Jane was going on a fucking journey, goddammit.
Rima said there would be buckets placed around the premises “just in case.” That was the moment when Jane lost her nerve and started to get up.
But Rima, who perhaps really was some kind of empath, instantly noticed and threw her a warm, reassuring look that made her feel compelled to sit back down.
She was going to do this, come hell, high water, or vomit buckets.
A stick was passed around. When it was your turn with the stick, you were to state your intention for your San Pedro experience.
One woman was mourning the loss of her father.
Another had chronic back pain. One man was trying to harness his sexuality, which Jane assumed meant he was a sex addict.
Another was trying to figure out his sexuality.
Patchouli Dude was hoping he would meet God.
When it was her turn, Jane said her intention was to simply let go and open her heart.
To her own ear, the intention sounded a little generic compared to the others, but Rima nodded approvingly.
Cups of water containing the powder of dehydrated San Pedro cactus were passed around.
Jane fought to suppress a memory of the Jonestown cultists chugging their fatal paper cups of lethal fruit punch as she gulped it down.
It was sludgy, smelled of seaweed and sawdust, and sank right to the bottom of her empty stomach.
Everyone was encouraged to go off and find a tranquil spot in the yard or inside the house and “just let it happen.” Jane, who liked to make things happen, not let them happen, checked herself—just go with it, Jane. Just let it happen. Except the vomiting part; that was never going to happen.
She found an out-of-the-way room with a pool table standing in the center and gingerly laid down on a giant puffy couch that practically swallowed her.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax into this experience.
No matter what, she was proud of herself for doing this.
There, that was a positive thought to launch her—oh, why the hell not—journey.
She listened to some chill music on her earbuds, occasionally doodling in a journal she had brought, and waited to be suffused with a powerful loving life force that would burst her heart open.
What she felt was more like a warm and fuzzy hum.
She let her mind roam, and it took her back two years, to the last time she’d been home to see her family in Chicago.
Teddy came with her, and he proved to be a welcome buffer and was great with her brother, John.
He related to him like a buddy—never patronizing or infantilizing him the way most people reflexively did.
The two of them watched football together, something John never did otherwise, and improbably, he seemed to love it.
Why? All those bodies colliding with such force and violence.
Maybe watching these able-bodied men getting knocked down and often injured made the ravages of disease in his poor battered body seem less exceptional.
Whatever the reason, her brother was laughing and eating handfuls of chips, and Teddy was relishing John’s delight in the game.
John resembled their mother and had inherited her blue eyes.
On her mother, the hue was icy and piercing, whereas John’s blue eyes looked like turbid lakes in which he was drowning.
Jane suspected her mother carried a profound guilt that the gene for John’s illness had indisputably been carried on the X chromosome.
Could you really blame yourself for something like that?
Teddy took a seat next to John at the dinner table.
Jane’s mother had brought in Chinese food and Teddy doled out fulsome compliments about how good it was, unfazed by the carton of Kung Pao chicken that John knocked over, which he gracefully scooped up without comment.
Her mother, on the other hand, glowered. She turned to Jane’s father.
“Carl, you’re slurring. Are you sure you want to open another beer?” She turned to Teddy. “Apologies, but he can get rather messy.”
Skillful deflection, really. Her son’s mess became her husband’s. Jane’s father fixed his wife with an impassive stare. “I’ve hardly said a word all night, sweetheart, but whatever makes you feel good. Are your pills not working?”
Jane’s father was implacable, coolheaded. He was a lawyer and chose his politely lacerating words carefully.
Jane’s mother glared. “There are not enough pills in the entire state of Illinois to make me feel good, my dear.”