One evening, while sitting on the living room couch reviewing maps and so forth, of course wearing my fully energized protective helmet, there arose, not so much of an ex-plosion as an im-plosion, or rather, an in-vagination, which began within the wall itself; I immediately identified the phenomena to be an evolving, although highly localized, black hole, worm hole if you will, calling up primordial substances as well as half-gods and quarter-gods.
The room tilted and I noted the sensation of "swirling," although could not discern whether this was taking place within or without my own consciousness. I placed my papers down and stamped my foot, realizing this had to be the work of my penis,; that he must be "doing something" down there in the basement.
For as long as I could remember, my penis had, from time to time, provoked disruption of local power grids, released chemical gases, as well as biologic toxins resulting in costly clean ups as well as men in hazard suits arriving at all hours of the day and night.
With these basement shenanigans, Tom had, at times, inadvertently provoked full scale wars.
As Tom had been doing so well recently, leaving me to get on with my work, I had been lulled into complacency and into the belief that somehow things had become different, that Tom had reformed, and that all the shit was behind us. With this new tremor, I could only sit on the couch and wait.
Within moments, Tom emerged from the basement in a daze and plunked himself down beside me, yellow sea boots and all. At least he had the presence of mind to bring with him two donuts: Krispy Kreme. All was not lost. Oh, and somehow, his arms had changed into wings, appearing more stylishly phallic. But whatever . . .
What I now heard then, was not exactly nails on a black board but close, like metal deracinated, or, two sharp pieces of jagged scrap being scraped against each another; a sound that made me want to hunch my shoulders up and make the "sucking on a lemon face."
"What IS all this shit?" He asked. These days, unlike in the past, we could talk if an issue arose. Most of our "issues" were relatively small, like "there's no toilet paper down stairs." He rarely masturbated, almost continually wore his bifocals and took to painting pictures or making collages, quietly peeling open cans of Spam when hungry. "I mean, where exactly am I?" he asked. "and who the fuck are you?"
He had put me on the spot. I didn't have such a good answer but I went for it: "I am your body along with the cranium containing the bulk of our central nervous system which scientists and even philosophers now acknowledge to embody the architecture of our mind, as well as personality and governing control centers of skeletal muscle and speech processing."
"I woke up feeling vacant," he interrupted. "You have set me apart. I'm disembodied. Look: I wear yellow sea boots. You don't, but I do. I'm not sure if I even like these yellow boots any longer. Had I chosen these boots? I can't recall."
"Yes, you did, Tom."
He had fancied himself, at one time, a swashbuckler. And in his swashbuckling days, he had assembled a costume; the yellow oil slickers had been available at the local seafaring store. There had been the eye patch and the peg leg but those had remained in his closet for the past ten years.
"OK. See that?" He pointed. The wall of the living room had spontaneously become a Thomas Hart Benton painting, which started revolving around us.
Then everything turned yellow and magic stuff appeared.
"Where did THAT come from?" I asked. Odd that I would be asking him to clarify the origin of a psychic manifestation; implying that it had been he who had recruited the sufficient number of neurons in order to create an "illusion"of this magnitude. Worm holes didn't just appear in one's living room.
"I am a disembodied penis and I have a problem with that," he stated.
We sat facing the worm hole on the opposite wall. He handed me a pair of special glasses: "Put these on."
"Ok.. . ." As soon as I put the glasses on, I recoiled: "WHOA!"
"That's the vortex on Saturn. And that thing lives there. He's kind of like my boss."
"Oh, uh huh," I said. "WHOOOOOAAAAAA!"
We spun around and around listening to sounds of metal tearing, of water running, of sirens, moans of pleasure, punching bags being struck, farts, forks swiped against plates, car horns blowing, the tapping of computer keypads, everything mixed up with colors shooting past our field of vision, strobe lights flashing, television commercials, and tumbling phallic symbols.
It all ended as soon as it began. I looked around, breathing heavily, a little nauseous. My penis was no where to be seen. I was a little irritated and a little sad. It had taken years, not months, not weeks, but years, for things to catch up with me. The living room remained silent. The sky outside the window was gray. I was cold and peered down into my pants, pulled at Tom then let him drop, as I noticed again the donuts. I took the caramel one.