THE MAGIC SHOES: 13) KEN KESEY
Monsters Monday Madness
Nurse Ratched (from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) guides me down a long corridor, out one door, which she unlocks and re-locks behind us. We go through another door, which she locks behind us. At the end of another corridor, we enter a laboratory.
She guides me to a young man with bushy sideburns, a receding hairline and a huge forehead, partially covered by a woolen cap.
“You asked to meet Ken?” she asks me.
Ken Kesey studies me somewhat bewildered. I gather he’s thinking I’m one of the acutes or maybe even a chronic.
I offer my hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
With obvious apprehension, he shakes and looks at Nurse Ratched, like, You can go now.
“Doctor Spivey thinks this gentleman is a good candidate for MKUltra,” Ratched explains. “He has expressed interest.”
This puzzles Kesey even more. “Why?”
“That’s what we’d like to know.” Ratched studies me with her pig-eyes. “MKUltra is highly confidential.”
“I’ve never talked to anyone about it,” says Kesey defensively. “This is the first time I’ve met this person.” He squints at me. “How do you know me?”
“Your book,” I say. “You’re going to write a great book about this place.”
Kesey steps back, shaking his head, perhaps thinking this is some kind of Nurse Ratched-inspired trap to catch him out for his copious note taking or sneaking LSD out the lab for all his friends.
Nurse Ratched hands me a clipboard with a pen. “You need to sign a confidentiality agreement before we can show you around this facility,” she says. “And a waiver, in the event you opt to join the program.”
I carefully read the one-page of small print to ensure I am not committing myself. It looks genuine, so I sign with a flourish. Then I read the waiver holding the facility harmless for anything that might happen to me. I sign that too.
Ratched takes the clipboard and leaves me in Ken Kesey’s charge.
“So what do you want from me, man?” he asks.
“Just meeting you is enough.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. One, you truly do become a famous writer. Right now I am inside your most successful book.”
Kesey cringes. “Fame is not good for a writer.”
“Two, I think that you are the solution for getting me back to where I belong.”
“Where’s that?”
“An antiquarian bookshop in London called Tindley & Everett. In the year 2023,” I add.
“Man, you’re really gone.”
I nod. “That’s right. I’m gone from there—and need to get back.”
“You think our program can help you?”
“You’re experimenting with LSD, right?”
“Hey, man—this program is highly confidential. It’s connected to national security. How do you know this stuff?”
“Trust me,” I smirk. “It gets investigated and exposed. All the documents get destroyed, though.”
“Look, man,” Kesey continues, “LSD could make things even worse for you.”
“Worse than being stuck in a book about a mental hospital?”
Kesey considers my point. “Okay, okay. If Doctor Spivey says it’s okay with him, I’m cool with it.” He turns to look back. “Follow me.”
I trail behind Kesey down another long, low-lit corridor. At the end he pulls out a large keychain. He first unlocks an outer door of steel bars, and then a thick metal-plated door behind it.
“This project is run by a very secretive government agency,” explains Kesey.
“Yeah, I know. The Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Damn, man,” says Kesey, shaking his head. “How do you know this shit? Most people don’t even know that agency exists.”
“Like I said, I live 60 years in the future.”
“Right… sure you do.” Kesey rolls his eyes. “Anyway, this program had its roots in brainwashing and mind control. The North Koreans tried various techniques on American POWs and now we’re trying to catch up. It’s really cool what we’re playing with. Follow me.”
We enter a labyrinth of lab room. It’s eerily quiet. I sense activity behind the closed doors, but it is difficult to discern.
Kesey leads me into a kitchen. “Would you like a sandwich?” he asks.
“Sure.” I’m hungry.
Kesey grabs couple of sandwiches from the fridge. He puts one in his pocket—“I’m saving it for later”—and hands me the other. “Ham on rye.”
I eat, gingerly at first, but my hunger gets the better of me and I quaff it down.
“We are planting a garden of strange plants blooming mysteries,” explains Kesey. “What’s truly important is the mystery, not the answer. There’s a greater need for mystery than answers. That’s why I like this place. They think we’re going to find answers.” He closes his eyes for two seconds, as if in prayer, and reopens them. “All we’re really finding is new mysteries. And we get to do it legally, man! Outside of this lab, society doesn’t want people to get high. You know why?”
“No.” I chuckle. “Why?”
“Because it helps you to see the falsity of the fabric of society we live in.” Kesey pauses. “How you feeling?”
“Good. When can we get started?”
Kesey chuckles. “We already did.”
“Did what?”
“Your rye bread. It had LSD in it. Congratulations, your first trip is about to begin.”
While the father of the hippie movement babbles on about how LSD will eventually be taught and handed out in school classrooms, I become absorbed with images floating through the air. Another dimension exists. One that cannot be perceived unless and until LSD turns on a perception switch in the brain.
These otherworldly patterns of motion and illumination are so very beautiful.
Kesey continues to talk, something about seeing the funny side of things to acquire strength, but his words fade into a distant window as this new world consumes me. I find myself standing in a vast library that seems to have infinite floors, all galleried with books. I’m standing, looking up, trying to detect where the tower ends. And suddenly the books are calling out to me. Just a few at first, then dozens, hundreds, thousands, all yelling, “Here I am!” and “Come get me!” and “Read me!” and “Come into me!”
Soon they’re jumping off the shelves and running in circles on little legs. They holler their invitations while pulling on my shins.
I turn and run.
They give chase, all yelling and screaming and begging me to indulge in their words of wisdom.
A book at my foot trips me, and I’m sprawled on the floor.
Another crawls over me, flings itself open opens and thrusts its contents of printed words into my eyes.
At the top of the page is the book’s title. On the Road.
And the page number, 134.
I close my eyes, hoping to return to Tindley & Everett’s comfortable chaise lounge.
But that’s not what happens.