The Moondust Sonatas

by Alan Osi

  Eventually something changed, and my soul-body connection reset, surged, and drew me back.

  I could feel my spine again. My back arched, hard, my eyes opened. I gasped for air.

  The joy faded.

  “Holy shit,” I panted. Tears dotted my face; later I would learn tears washed away the powder, which is why I’d returned.

  “I just saw God.”

  “I know,” Clyde said. “You’re welcome.”

  Thursday, September 28, 2006

  5. JUSTINE

  By the brownstones of the wealthy on Sutton Street, in one of the few quiet places to be found in Manhattan, a little so-called park comprised only of benches bolted to concrete over the water, and one word written in wild-style fluorescent on a concrete wall opposite the river—I held his hand. The wind whipped through my jacket, and I shivered.

  He, Maxwell, worked in the editorial department of The New York Globe, moving up the ladder through determined hard work, and we had something, I hoped.

  I, Justine, worked for Action, Now! a non-profit organization. At the moment, we fund-raised to aid a humanitarian crisis in South-East Asia.

  Maxwell and I lived in New York: I in Harlem and he in Hell’s Kitchen. I loved my neighborhood, its speed and ceaselessness, the children playing on sidewalks and in gutters. I loved Manhattan, its abrasive humanity.

  We’d eaten dinner up the street, at March. Now, river-side, we spoke sweet words, told jokes, whispered nothing in particular.

  And then he asked, “You never said. Do you want kids one day?”

  I answered, “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated by what?”

  “Everything,” I said. “You want to explain my future in a soundbite.”

  “The kids’ part. Is that complicated?”

  “Isn’t it early for this conversation?” I asked, because it was. Very, way.

  “Well,” he said, “I like the idea of getting the big stuff out of the way.”

  Fair enough. But, still, I decided to answer in generalities. “I think I like the idea of having children, but I don’t think I like the world I’d be raising them in.”

  “People have been saying that since the dawn of time.”

  “Not true. People have been saying that since the dawn of industrialization.”

  “Like everyone was happy before the steam engine. You forgot to ask me if I want kids. Don’t you want to know?”

  “To be honest, not yet, not by a long shot.”

  “Ask me anyway.”

  Sigh. “Max, do you want kids?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, grinning. “It’s complicated.”

  I play-punched his midsection.

  He grabbed me and held me to him, rocking me, and in my ear he whispered, “One day, a long time from now, I’m going to own a little house right by some deep, dark, scary-wild woods. And I’m going to have a wife there, and we’re going to raise three children, who will play in the woods, go to school, and grow up to rule the world.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked because I had no idea what to do with this.

  “More or less.”

  “You’re domestic.”

  He didn’t answer, but smiled a bemused smile. In my heart, a whisper of doubt appeared. I would need to mull this later.

  Behind us, we heard steps on the stairway leading up to the street above this recessed park. We turned, and saw a man in an outdated, disheveled, gray suit. Gray-shot hair bunched in odd patches on his head, and disquiet filled his eyes. Thin lips, crooked nose. But, still, in spite of everything, he had magnetism, intrigue.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said. “Have you ever wished you could directly experience God?”

  The question seemed so ridiculous I didn’t know what to say. Maxwell answered instead.

  “Look, pal, we don’t want your Jehovah’s Witness, eight-fold Hari-Krishna stuff or whatever, so go away please.”

  “I come from no false religion. What I offer is truth, the real and true experience of God. But, if you want me to leave, I will.”

  Maxwell worked for the newspaper, and if a new religious movement stumbled across his path, he had to pursue it. He was waiting for his “big break,” after all. So I understood when his eyes lit up.

  “What do you mean by ‘the experience of God’? What church are you from?”

  “I am with no religious organization of any kind—they’re all false—which is part of the reason I’m standing before you tonight.”

  Oh, and what is the other part? But, I didn’t say anything.

  “So what’s this ‘experience of God’ stuff about?”

  “This,” he said, and slowly, calmly reached into a shallow coat pocket to produce two small plastic bags, each with a miniscule amount of gray powder inside.

  Max snorted. “A drug? Get the fuck outta here. … No, wait. Is, is that like some new drug?”

  “This isn’t a drug. It’s from the angels.” He handed Maxwell the bags. “If you wish to see God, put a small bit of this in your eye, and you will, until you cry the powder out. Do not contact me, you will never see me again. I’m simply a messenger.”

  With that, he turned and left.

  We sat in slightly shocked silence, listening to his footfalls recede. I said, “May I see?” And I reached for one of the bags.

  It contained fine gray powder, and when I held it up to examine it, the baggie weighed nothing at all. It comforted me. I couldn’t explain why.

  “This could be huge,” Max said. “We have to get these analyzed right away.” He held his bag up also, studying it.

  “You can run off and get yours analyzed if you want. But, this bag is mine.”

  Max, shocked, said, “Huh?”

  “He gave us two. One for you and one for me.”

  “You’re not planning on taking that, are you?”

  “No.”

  “So why do you want it?”

  “Because this has never happened to me before.”

  “Okay, but just don’t take it. I have no idea what’s in there.”

  “Of course not.” I said, standing up. “You should go. You have a story to chase.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Whatever I did or said, I’m sorry.”

  Had I overreacted? Whatever emotional truth I reacted to had not distilled yet into a clear grievance, and if I didn’t know why I was irked, maybe I shouldn’t be. So, instead of walking away, I paused.

  Max stood up, and put his arms around me. “Don’t leave.”

  We went back to my place, and slept there.

  In the morning I woke up to find him dressing, rushing off to work. Distracted, he barely even said goodbye.

  After he left, I showered and dressed, ate some corn flakes, then got on the computer and read the news. It was an important ritual; in my line of work, current events mattered.

  But thinking about news made my head turn to where my purse lay, innocently, on a chair. And inside of it, a small bag of gray powder.

  I wanted to hold it again. And so I opened the purse and reached inside. I couldn’t find the baggie at first, and a small panic arose. When my hand eventually stumbled across it, I felt that same inexplicable comfort.

  Friday, September 29, 2006

  6. MAXWELL

  I left Justine’s apartment first thing in the morning. I was onto something, something that might put my career on an exponential curve.

  I’d been working for The New York Globe for about two years, building my resume and waiting for a break. Breaks were hard to come by. I thought maybe I’d found my chance when some weirdo in a suit threw a drug in my lap and told me it showed people God. The guy might have been nuts, of course.

  I needed to get this stuff analyzed ASAP. I also needed to find users for potential interview subjects. From there, I would play it by ear, investigating based on the leads I would find. When it was all said and done, I’d go to the paper to give them an article—waiting to go to press—
that would make me famous and them rich.

  I considered it a great pleasure and joy to be engaging in pure journalism. Things had pushed so far out of whack in our industry, every office of every newspaper and cable-news channel was permeated with an atmosphere of fear and frustration, often closing down. Newspapers shilled for the corporations and parties. Everyone knew readership was down, but no one knew what to do about it. Owners everywhere sold to conglomerates and shady billionaires. Lay-offs left and right. Hard-hitting, truth-telling journalism, daring investigative reporting, and general onion-peeling—these were actively discouraged. As a novelist once wrote, we slid down the surface of things.

  Well, here was a chance to do something that mattered. I would crack the right way a story demanding national attention. A story without pussy-flashing alcoholic celebrity bimbos or disgruntled sociopathic football stars. No bullshit, just the shocking, dark, twisted truth. God was now being sold as a drug, and I would get to the bottom of it.

  Even though he told me not to, I needed to go after the man who gave us the substance. He would likely be resistant to inquiry, but this is what professionals do. I would start small, only asking the name of the stuff I had. Because even after getting its chemical composition and ascribing a pharmaceutical label, I was writing blind if I couldn’t access the drug’s street identity. Without that, I had no way in with the users.

  But first things first. Go to the laboratory the paper used as a source in an ongoing investigation. They’d made me play courier, which turned out to be a boon, strangely enough. I knew one of the chemists now. When I’d called to see if any staff were working, he answered. That was a big stroke of luck for me, because he said he could squeeze in my job, today. It would cost, he’d said. But, the newspaper would pay, so I didn’t care too much.

  I decided to take the subway instead of a cab. Despite the cool day, the train car roasted us, and I found myself dabbing perspiration and contemplating removing my sweater.

  Right before this became a problem, I was back on the street and down the block toward the building at the corner of 93rd and Amsterdam.

  The chemist, Peter, greeted me when I found him in his lab’s break area, reading the newspaper, sipping coffee. “Oh, Max,” he said. “Hey.”

  He was a tallish man with a big belly, and a hairline receding into non-existence. Peter waved a few fingers at me, and I could see on his hands the deep grooves and rough patches of a working man. Now in story mode, locked on to that detail, I needed to know why a chemist had a laborer’s callouses.

  So I said, “I’m curious. How does someone in your line of work develop rough hands like yours?”

  “I have hobbies.”

  “Like what?”

  He only smiled. The silence thickened, and Peter sat drinking coffee, reading away.

  I sighed. “Okay, never mind. I have something real interesting for you today.”

  “Do you?”

  I put the baggie of substance on the table in front of him. “I don’t know what it’s called. But, I’ve been told if you put it on your eyeball, you see God. It’s some new kind of drug.”

  “You put it on your eyeball, and you see God?”

  Something in his tone gave pause. “Have you heard of this stuff? What can you tell me about it?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Just some stupid joke about a scientist who got a sample in his eye.”

  “And?”

  “He goes to hell.”

  “Well, that’s not really this, is it?”

  “Which is exactly why I didn’t volunteer. You want the works on this?”

  “Is it possible to rush?”

  “I’ll add an extra 20 percent for that. But, sure. Come back in three hours.”

  I hailed a cab rather than take the subway back to the office. Once inside the cab’s smooth interior, I engaged to gather intel.

  “Sir,” I said to the driver, “can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “Do you ever overhear customers talking about weird drugs? Psychedelics? Something new?”

  He seemed hesitant.

  “Trust me,” I said, “I’m curious, that’s all. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I hear the usual. Cocaine, Marijuana, E… They’re sick, these children. Sick.”

  “But nothing new?”

  “I hear nothing unusual.”

  “Do any of them ever mention God?”

  “What would they know of God? God does not come in a powder,” he said, waving his free arm. I smiled at the irony.

  The ride was quiet, only the squawk of his radio and the ever-present blast of car horns disturbing me. I thumbed the business card of Harold G. Westgate, impatient.

  When we got to The New York Globe, I paid the driver, then rode the elevator up to my floor. On Fridays like this, the place was relatively empty. When I got to my desk, I dialed the number Westgate gave me, but his office’s switchboard denied his extension and kicked me to a receptionist. I asked for Harold Westgate. They employed no one with that name. A dead end.

  I couldn’t write this story without the drug’s street identity.

  I set about the task of finding Harold’s personal information online. I wanted telephone numbers and addresses, anything to help me track him down. After a few more dead-ends, I found an address, using a sneaky and somewhat shady web service. He lived in Brooklyn, on Flushing in the Bushwick neighborhood. No telephones listed.

  So I called a car and told dispatch to book a round trip.

  On the way to Brooklyn, on the bridge, I acted on a sudden urge to call Justine. When she picked up she sounded distant somehow, as if, while speaking to me, she attempted to smile.

  7. HAROLD

  In my new life as the messenger, I needed to be well-spoken, always. I would dress neatly, in professional attire only.

  I rode the train, making a list of the things to do in my new life. I had just taken more steps toward becoming pure—freeing myself of the burden of owning an apartment and having a job. I still gave out my old business card when I spread my love of the Lord throughout this city, however. The card served as an ice-breaker, nothing more, and it did not affect my transition to my new life.

  I believed God would be happy with my progress, but it hadn’t been enough to be allowed to see God again. I hoped I was working hard enough to please Him. But, I would never know until He allowed me to return.

  After I finished my list, I looked around—a mostly-empty train—and dropped moondust in order to pursue my Lord.

  When my soul first left my body, I could, as usual, feel the barest whisper of the Angel’s song, a beautiful, lingering, holy joy. Then I was a farmer’s wife.

  This small failure only strengthened my resolve. I only needed to grab a few things from the apartment I was vacating; the remainder were trappings, unnecessary. I would live without possessions, the way the prophets of old did.

  How else could I continue, having been confronted with the majesty of God? The stranger who gave me this powder must have been an angel in disguise—claiming to be just a man dying—and the last of a long line who carried this secret through generations. I did not believe him. He was an angel giving me a mission, to teach the world. I would do so by living simply, and spreading God’s vision as far as I could.

  It sometimes seemed such a far cry from the life I lived before, so strange. But, as always when this happened, I remembered I was building a better world.

  When the Morgan Avenue stop came, I got off the train and walked until I reached Flushing, where I rented an apartment over a small diner.

  Realizing I would miss both the diner owner and her food, I craned my neck to try to get a glance of her through the window, as I walked toward my door. So I didn’t notice the man waiting for me by the doorway until he spoke.

  “Mr… Messenger?” he said, after clearing his throat. “You may remember me, you gave me some white powder yeste
rday, and I need its name.”

  I turned on him quickly. I remembered him as an initiate I enlightened uptown.

  “I told you never to attempt to contact me,” I said, quietly, and probably with menace, for he shrank back.

  “Easy, guy. All I want is the name. That’s not a lot to ask. I’ll even buy you lunch.”

  I looked into his eyes. “It’s called moondust. Now disappear.”

  As he turned to leave, I said, “Never try to find me again.”

  “I won’t,” he called over his shoulder. I made a mental note to find an alternative to the business card, which showed my real name. He tracked me that way.

  Inside of my old apartment, I gathered the necessary things and placed them in a large duffel bag. I saw God here, and because this site was holy, I resented the necessity of abandoning it.

  As I left, I paused at the door, and let my eyes return to the spot of my awakening. I could almost see my former self there, lying on his back, experiencing the nexus of existence.

  Then I stepped out of the door, into my new life, becoming an instrument of the Lord.

  8. MAXWELL

  My brief meeting with the messenger left me with an intense disquiet. He struck me as a madman.

  The good news: now I knew the name, moondust. The bad news: I had nothing else.

  Because enough time elapsed, I went back to my chemist; this story demanded hustle. With that maniac giving drugs to anyone, I couldn’t even be sure I was the only one after this.

  Since the car left while I waited for Westgate, I took the L-train back into the city. I got a seat as soon as I got in the car, making notes to myself via pen and notepad and trying to determine next steps. I made little progress. Lacking the underworld contacts I needed for this story, I hoped the chemist could give me something to chase after.

  If the chemist wanted more for a big lead, it was possible. I needed to try to score some moondust myself, on the streets. Buying drugs was never something I did, leaving me dangerously ignorant of the lingo and procedure. Perhaps I could find an apparent drugden, walk in, and tell of my strange encounter with the messenger, pretending I’d taken moondust and wanted more.