Once again, we sail through my mind’s golden ether as it swirls with red, blue, and purple, Dave’s hair blown back in the psychic breeze.

  “I’ve been thinking, Dave.”

  “Go on.”

  “You seem a little different from before.”

  “How so?”

  “You don’t look much like a Dave anymore.”

  “No?”

  “Your muscles are bigger. Your jaw is sturdier and broader. You look even more heroic than you did, like you’re some big shot who’s going to stop crime for a dime. Biweekly and with plenty of Pepsodent ads between the covers, of course.”

  He stops and looks down at his hands and body, causing me to shloop past him and turn around.

  “Maybe helping others is where true power comes from.”

  I stare at him with mild confusion, wondering if he’s talking to me. Did he even get my comic book reference? Damn it, that was clever. My wit is wasted here.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  He takes off flying again, and I shloop after him.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Is that how he gets by? He says that way too often for a guy taking me places and showing me things.

  ‘Where are we going, marble-man?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack.’

  Can’t wait for that one to happen. I’ll roll my eyes until they pop out of their purple sockets.

  The stone doors with their golden seams barge into my mind like a dame barging into my office with a case against her lying, cheating husband that she’s lying to and cheating on.

  What’s behind those things? I have to know. It made my hand human again. Why? Was that a clue? Do I have to be a man to open that thing, or is that thing the key to becoming a man again?

  Funny: never thought a locked door would be a suspect for a key. This is the strangest life I’ve ever known. The whole thing, from childhood to the war to investigating to my newest occupation as an unknowable monstrosity lost in the depths of space and forgotten to time. I’m pretty sure I’m forgotten to time. May as well be: there’s no way of knowing what’s happening back in Washington. This is all so strange. How does a man just get used to this sort of thing? Better question: how does a tentacle monster get used to having been a man?

  “When are we getting to our next stop?” I ask.

  “Whenever you decide to conjure up more knots to untie.”

  “What?” I’ll give him credit: at least he didn’t say ‘I don’t know.’ May as well have though.

  “We’re inside your head. You control where things are. I was just flying you around until you came to some sort of epiphany as to what needs fixing.”

  “Some guide you are.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “That was sarcasm.”

  “In every bit of sarcasm, there’s a hint of truth. I choose to see the diamond and not the rough, Jack.”

  “The rough’s still there.”

  “You just need to have an attitude of gratitude, Jack.”

  “Sure thing, buddy.”

  “Look at me, for example: I woke up on an asteroid with no idea who I was, where I was, or what an asteroid even is. Do you think I became resentful?”

  “You couldn’t. You had no idea what to resent. Probably didn’t even know what resentment was. You probably still don’t know.” An asteroid? That must be the rock he was talking about. That’s not a planet we’re on; we’re on an asteroid. Not sure how much that changes. I guess I’ll add that to my list of strange things to figure out.

  “Exactly! You need to take the idea of resentment and just throw it straight out of your head. Consign it to the void. It’s no good for you.”

  “Alright, buddy. Enough with the psycho babble. You’re making me sick. You’re a lousy head doctor.”

  “You’re already sick, Jack. I’m just bringing the illness to light so we can treat it.”

  “Isn’t the illness obvious? I’m a flying ball of spaghetti. I’m only supposed to have two eyes, but I’ve got more than I can count. Two arms and two legs, but dozens of wiggly tentacles. This whole 'part in a great war' thing better lead to fixing that, or I’m scramming out.”

  “All those eyes, yet you can’t see. All those limbs, yet you can’t grasp the severity of the situation.”

  “Grasp the severity of the situation?! I’m fully aware of how insane this all is, buddy!”

  “Jack, there’s no need to get angry. Anger is like drinking poison and expecting your foe to suffer.”

  “You know, you’re making me feel like drinking poison isn’t such a bad idea right now.” Sure could go for a lowball of poison. Pass the rye, bartender. We’re in for a long night.

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  “No one can make you feel anything.”

  “Are you trying to drive me more insane?”

  “I’m not trying to do anything, Jack. I’m only here to be me so that you can be you. That’s all you have to do: be your best self. Everyone else is already taken.”

  “I’m done with all this jawing. Talking to you is like eating a bag of fortune cookies.”

  “If that’s what you think you need, go for it. Sometimes we need to close a door so we can open a window.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense!”

  “The door is the mouth. The windows are the eyes.”

  “I’ve killed men for lesser crimes than the ones you’re committing right now.”

  “And you can let all that go. What’s done is done. We have to make the most we can with what’s left.”

  “Forget about it. All of it. We’re in here to get work done. Let’s get this finished so we can hit the next objective.” Maybe that’ll shut his head.

  “It’s going to be a long time before anything is finished. Take a deep breath. Enjoy the ride. We’re here for the journey; the destination will take care of itself.”

  “That one’s just bad advice, swami.” Nope.

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or, is it just advice that’s bad to who you are, but good to who you should be, and you’re resisting the change that needs to occur?”

  “No, it’s just bad advice.”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, I’m running out of aphorisms. I was really hoping you’d pick a problem to solve by now.”

  “Then let me give you some advice: a man always needs a target. Without a target, there is no journey. Without a target, a man’s just a bindlestiffbindle stiff, and buddy, have you seen these arms? They’re way too loosey-goosey to be called stiff.”

  “What’s your target then, Jack?”

  “To become a man again.”

  “No, what’s your real target?”

  I grit my teeth at that question like an oyster fighting to keep its shell shut to cruel hands prying for a pearl.

  “We talked about this. Freedom.” I throw the marble-man a bone so he’ll let the issue rest.

  “Freedom, by which you really mean virtue.” He refuses to bite.

  “Sure. Like I said, the will to perform the good. What more is there?”

  “How do you plan on acquiring virtue?”

  “Do I really need a plan? It’s just something you start doing until you get it right.”

  “Well, just start walking and let me know when you get to Paradise.”

  “I don’t walk anymore. I shloop.” This guy’s reminding me why I took up smoking. “I think we just swapped sides in this spat. Point taken, though. A poorly defined target can be worse than having no target. Alright, so I’m going to become virtuous by untying these knots you keep talking about. Speaking of which, when are we getting back to the knots?”

  “We’re there right now.”

  “Where? There’s still nothing here. You’re running me ragged, chief.” Now, he’s reminding me why I took up drinking. “Just tell me plain as day what’s going on here. What’s your plan?”

  “You’ve realized something is broken inside of you.”

  “Right.”

  “You put the pieces back together and are working on embracing the imperfections.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now, we need to find the hell you’re trying to escape and the heaven you’re trying to pursue.”

  “Say it plainer. I’m hard of thinking lately.”

  “What’s the worst that could become of you? We need to sort that out and understand it so you know what’s in store for you if you stray from your journey. I guess the other part is the destination. Gee, that really was bad advice.”

  “Told you.”

  “My mistake. I’m kind of new at this guide thing. I’m really looking forward to the part where you realize you can blow stuff up with your mind, though.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.” Once again, he refuses to elaborate.

  “Wait a minute … I think I just realized something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said we’re inside my mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “My mind. You said I have control over where things are. I must also have control over what things are.”

  “Yes! Now, you’re seeing it.”

  I stop dead in my tracks, shutting my eyes and focusing as hard as I can. When I open them, there’s a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. Proverbially.

  I hold the cigarette between my lips and start flicking the lighter.

  “Finally.”

  “That’s—”

  “Hush up, marble-man, or I’ll blow you up with my mind.

  “Didn’t you just say no more smoking?”

  “That was when I didn’t know I had a choice,” I say with my lips clenched tight around the pill as I try to light it. “Besides, what’s the point of quitting now? I’ve seen past the curtain. Everything is random nonsense. Nothing has a purpose. It’s all just smoke rolling off the end of a burning butt.” You’d think I’d be able to imagine a lighter that actually works.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “No, but it’s a convenient thing to say at the moment to get you to let me imbibe.” It’s not the lighter. It’s these damn tentacles. Maybe if I just imagine the flame…

  “I might be new at this guide thing, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea to throw around such powerful statements so arbitrarily. What do you really believe, Jack?”

  Finally, the spark of the lighter catches on the gas. I finally take a drag, watching the tip of the cigarette burn a bright orange.

  “I don’t know what I believe, Dave. Can’t be sure I even really believe anything. I’m just a tentacle monster trying to get by in this mad, mixed-up world.” Smoke rolls out of my mouth and up above our heads, where it gathers into a cloud.

  Dave looks up at the cloud and says, “Watch the smoke, Jack. I’m going to use it to show you something.”

  The buzz you get when you first imbibe on the burning little sticks or when it’s been too long since your last starts going to my head.

  “Sure thing, Dave. I’m in a better mood now. Show me what you’ve got.”

  That’s the last thing I remember before I look into the smoke and drift away into a dream.

  Damn it. Again? Did I imagine the wrong kind of cigarette?