by Gene Brewer
“Peachy keen,” I replied glumly. “I’m going to wake you up now. Five, four, three—”
“Are we done?”
“Apparently we’re back to square one. Again.”
“The best place to be!”
“In that case, let’s start where we left off last time. You were six, in Earth terms, and so far you’ve had a perfect childhood on K-PAX, with no problems whatever, except for the odd scrape or bruise, of course.” Missing or ignoring the hint of sarcasm, he waited for me to proceed. “What happened after that?” I prodded him.
“After what?”
“After you were six.”
“I was seven.”
“Har har har. Tell me about your life as a boy of seven. For example, did you have any friends your own age?”
“Everyone on K-PAX—”
“Let me rephrase that. Did you have anyone your age to play—I mean, to interact with? Of your own species, that is.”
“Not really. As you know, there aren’t many children around. Not like on EARTH, where almost everyone seems to think it’s his and her duty to breed and breed and choke your WORLD to death as quickly as possible.”
I jotted down: Environment rantings really about procreation/sex? “Let’s talk about you today, shall we? I remind you that if your parents hadn’t conceived you, you wouldn’t be here.”
“If Giselle had wheels, she’d be a wagon.”
“Do you think you shouldn’t have been born?”
“Irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial. I didn’t get a vote in the matter.”
“If you had gotten a vote, how would you have voted?”
“If Giselle had wheels, she’d be—”
“All right. Who did you associate with when you were a boy?”
“Whoever happened—”
“—to be around. Yes, of course. But could you be more specific?”
He named a few names, none of which I had heard before.
“Okay,” I interrupted. “What sorts of things did you do with these—uh—beings?”
“The same as anyone does. We ate and slept and watched the stars and talked about all sorts of things.”
“What sorts of things did you talk about?”
“Whatever came to mind.”
At that point something came to mine. “Tell me: Who told you about the Earth?”
“No one told me. I heard your radio waves when I was in the library. Along with those of other PLANETS.”
“How old were you then?”
“Oh, thirty-five or so. Three and a half in your terms.”
“Are all K-PAXian kids interested in astronomy?”
“Oh, sure. K-PAXians love to talk about other PLANETS, other GALAXIES, other UNIVERSES, that sort of thing.”
“When did you first come to Earth?”
“You remember. In 1963, your calendar.”
“How old were you then?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Was it your first trip to another planet?”
“No. But it was my first solo flight.”
“I see. Do you remember the details?”
“Every one of them.”
“Would you mind filling me in on them, please?”
“Not at all.” But he just sat there.
I rephrased the question.
“I got a call from someone named ‘robin.’ He said he needed me. So I hopped on over.”
“He called you on the telephone?”
“Of course not—we don’t have telephones on K-PAX.”
“So how did you know he needed you?”
“I suppose I happened to be tuned to his wavelength.”
“His wavelength?”
“Have you forgotten all your high-school physics, gino? A wavelength is the length of a wave.”
“And you just went.”
“Yep.”
“What were you doing when the call came?”
“Eating some likas. Watching a yellow horn dig a hole.”
“And where did you land when you got here?”
“In china.”
“How did you get to Montana?”
“Same way I got to china.”
“Light travel.”
“Kee-reck.”
“So you found Rob—”
“In no time at all.”
“What was he doing when you got there?”
“Attending a funeral.”
“What did he say when you showed up?”
“Not much. His father had just died.”
“So he was pretty unhappy?”
Prot paused here. “It was the first time I had encountered sadness. It took me a little while to understand what was wrong with him.”
“What did you decide it was?”
“I figured it probably had something to do with his father’s demise.”
“Wouldn’t that make you sad?”
“I don’t know who my father is.”
“Of course. So you couldn’t possibly be sad when he dies.”
“I probably wouldn’t even know about it.”
“How convenient.”
“Is that another of your famous non sequiturs?”
“What did Robert want from you?”
“He didn’t say. I think he just wanted someone to commiserate with.”
“I can understand that. But why you?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“He doesn’t seem to want to talk to me. Will you ask him?”
“Sure. If I see him.”
“Thank you. Now—how long were you on Earth?”
“A few days.”
“Just long enough to help him over the worst of it, is that right?”
“I suppose you could put it that way. After a while, he didn’t need me anymore.”
“So you went back to K-PAX.”
“Righto.”
“Back to your wanderings and stargazing and all the rest.”
“Yes, indeedy.”
“And that’s how you spent your childhood.”
“Pretty much. An orange or a banana would taste good right now, don’t you think?”
“I’ll see that you get some at the end of the session.”
“Thankee kindly.”
“No problemo. Now—how old were you when you got to puberty?”
“A hundred and twenty-eight.”
“What’s that like on K-PAX?”
“About like it is here. Hair sprouts up everywhere. Stuff like that.”
“Any change in your feeling about girls?”
“Why should there be?”
“When did you become interested in girls?”
“I’m interested in everything.”
“I mean sexually interested.”
“You’re playing dumb again, aren’t you, gene? No one on K-PAX is sexually interested in anyone else.”
“Because the sex act is so unpleasant.”
“Very.”
“Tell me—if it’s so unpleasant, why do any of your beings want to produce children at all?”
“Not many of them do.”
“Just enough to keep your species alive?”
“‘Species’ don’t live. Only individuals do.”
“I’ll rephrase that. Your species propagates only enough to maintain itself?”
“No. As a matter of fact, our species will probably disappear in a few thousand years.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why should it?”
“Why should it? Because there wouldn’t be any more dremers (K-PAXians of prot’s species)!”
He shrugged. “Here today, gone mañana. A drop in the ocean of time.”
“All right. Tell me this: Is sexual activity unpleasant right from the start?”
“From the very beginning.”
“Did you ever get an erection when you were a boy?”
“Once in a while.”
“What was it like?”
“It usually meant I had to uri
nate.”
“You never touched your penis except to urinate?”
“No.”
“Did you ever have any sexual feelings when you had an erection, good or bad?”
“Pretty bad. I got up and peed right away.”
“So, in your entire—ah—four hundred years or so, you’ve never been with a woman? Or a man, for that matter? Or masturbated, not even once?”
“Nothing could be farther from my mind.”
“And no one ever made an attempt to seduce you at any time in your life?”
“Only on EARTH. Unsuccessfully, of course.”
“Have you ever seen anyone else do it? Of your own species, I mean.”
“Do what?”
“Engage in sexual activity of any kind.”
“No. It hardly ever happens on K-PAX, you know.”
“You’ve never seen anyone kiss or touch someone of the opposite sex?”
“Of course we touch. But only in what you would call a ‘platonic’ way.”
Something, no doubt extraneous, occurred to me. “If I remember correctly, you told me once that there is no such thing as marriage on K-PAX—is that right?”
“Yes, and may I say it’s a pretty stupid idea on EARTH, too.”
“Well, without love or marriage, how do you know who to produce a child with?”
“It’s no big mystery. You bump into someone who, for some reason or other, feels a compulsion to add to the population of the species and—”
“How would you know if someone wants to do that?”
“He or she will tell you, of course. We don’t have all these silly games you play on EARTH.”
“Where do you ‘bump into’ members of the opposite sex? Are there bars? Things like that?”
“No bars. No restaurants. No exercise parlors. No grocery stores. No churches. No—”
“While you’re traveling, then?”
“Usually. Or in the libraries. You’d be surprised how many interesting beings you can find in a library.”
“And you just do it, without thinking much about it?”
“Oh we think about it very carefully before going ahead with it.”
“You have to weigh the pros and cons.”
“Exactly.”
“And everyone on K-PAX knows how unpleasant sex is.”
“Certainly.”
“Who teaches you about that?”
“Whoever is—”
“Whoever is around. I know, I know. All right. What if someone wants to conceive a child with you and you don’t want to do it?”
“Nothing.”
“What about animals?”
Another little prot-like snicker. “We’re all animals, gino.”
“Did you ever see any other species on your planet copulate?”
“Once in a while.”
“Do they seem to be in pain?”
“Absolutely. There’s considerable resistance, a lot of noise and commotion.”
“Do all your beings have this problem?”
“I don’t consider it a problem.”
“Prot, which do you hate most—money or sex?”
He wagged his head again. “You still don’t get it, do you, doc? Money is a dumb idea. Sex is horrible.”
I nodded, surprised to discover that our time was up.
But prot wasn’t finished. “Your beings seem to be endlessly fascinated by the subject of reproduction. That’s all your popular songs are about, and your movies and sitcoms, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Love, sex, love, sex, love, sex. You humans aren’t easily bored, are you?”
“It’s an important subject for most of us.”
“Pity. Think what you could accomplish if you spent all that time and energy on something else.”
“We’ll take this up next session, all right?”
“Whatever you say. Don’t forget to have some fruit sent over. I’ll be in my room.”
“Just curious—what are you going to do after you’ve had the fruit?”
“Thought I’d take a nap.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It can be.” He flipped on his dark glasses. “Cheers.”
I wondered what he meant by that. As he was going out the door, I shouted, “Prot!”
He whirled and peered over the dark glasses. “Yeeeesssss?”
“Do you ever dream when you sleep?”
“Sure.”
“Try to remember one for next time, will you?”
“That won’t be too hard. They’re always the same.”
“Really? What are they about?”
He rolled his eyes. “Ka raba du rasht pan domit, sord karum—”
“In English, please.”
“Okay. I see a field of grains, with trees and beautiful flowers mixed in here and there. Nearby a couple of aps are chasing each other, and in the distance a bunch of—well, something like your giraffes are munching rummud leaves. A whole flock of mountain korms are flying by, barking their exuberant calls....” He opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling. “And the sky! The sky is like one of your sunsets—pink and purple all the time. You might say it’s a picture-postcard scene, except we don’t have pictures. Or postcards. The air is so clear you can see some of the rills on our closest moons. But the best parts of it you don’t see. You feel and smell and taste them. It’s so utterly calm that you can hear for miles. The air is sweeter than honeysuckle, only not as cloying. The ground is soft and warm. You can lie down anywhere. There is food wherever you look. And you are free to go anywhere without the slightest fear. Each moment is limited only by your imagination. And it’s wonderfully peaceful. There’s no pressure to work or do anything you don’t want to do. Every single moment is a happy time, a time without—”
“All right, prot. It sounds great. I’ll send you down a basket of fruit right away. What would you like?”
“Bananas!” he replied instantly. “I haven’t had any of those for a while. The riper the better!” he reminded me.
“I remember.”
He smiled in anticipation as he made his way to the stairs.
After he had gone I found myself scribbling: LOVE! SEX! LOVE! SEX! on my yellow pad. In fact I made it into a little tune. I had a feeling this had been a key session, yet I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. Was his problem a question of doing something almost unspeakable (in his mind) to someone he loved? Did this involve sex in some way? To prot, sex was the worst idea in the universe, worse even than his other bugaboos—money, religion, governments, schools, and all the rest. Despite his milk and honey protests, life was so calamitous for prot and his fellow “K-PAXians” that most of them would rather become extinct than reproduce themselves. I couldn’t help feeling more than a little saddened by this terrible truth: The ultimate solution to his, and perhaps everyone’s, problems was death itself. I didn’t much like the ring of that.
Then there was the matter of dreams, a direct pipeline to the unconscious mind. There are whole journals devoted to the dream state, as well as to the phenomenon of sleep itself, though no one seems to know what purpose either of them really fulfills. It has been hypothesized (by Sagan, among others) that sleep evolved as a way to keep prey animals out of the clutches of predators during periods of highest risk. My own view is more or less the opposite: that sleep became a way to reduce anxiety and boredom while animals were in hiding. If so, it may serve the same function in human beings. In any case, the need for sleep has been with us for millions of years, as has, perhaps, the dream state.
The analysis of dreams can be a powerful component of psychotherapy. Dreams may be a way of bringing into the conscious mind events that are normally repressed. For example, a man who fears heights might persistently dream of falling out of windows. And a woman who is concerned about the sexual advances of a co-worker might dream of being attacked by men with clubs (phallic symbols). Though subject to more than one possible interpretation, dreams can give us important insights into what is literally “on someone’
s mind.” Sometimes they can tell us things that don’t come out even under hypnosis! Though it didn’t seem likely that an analysis of prot’s relentlessly idyllic one would be productive, I kicked myself for not making an effort to analyze Robert’s dreams when I had had the opportunity. Now there were no dreams of Robert’s to analyze. There was no Robert!
I kicked myself again.
Session Thirty-eight
On Saturday, while raking the final leaves of autumn, I thought about a persistent dream of my own, one so familiar that I recognize it as a dream even as it happens. It always takes place in the same surroundings, my own house, though all the rooms are empty. After searching for a very long time (I don’t know what I’m searching for), I step into a room and find a man there. He is carving something with a knife. I creep closer, trying to determine what he is whittling out. Closer and closer, until I can almost see the familiar figure in his strong hands. At this point I always wake up. Whether it’s because I recognize it as the end of the dream or I don’t really want to find out what he’s carving, I can’t say.
Of course it’s my father, and it’s my life he’s forging for me.
I have other, more pleasant dreams as well: winning the Nobel prize for medicine (in my acceptance speech I can’t think of a thing to say); passionate love with my wife, which sometimes turns into the real thing; playing basketball with my children, none of whom has ever grown up.
But prot had only one beautiful dream, as befit his singularly happy life in his perfect world. Where no one had to work, food was plentiful, and life was always fun, harmonious, and interesting. Had he always had this idyllic dream, even from the beginning? While stuffing the crunchy, redolent leaves into a large plastic bag, I thought about his previous “trip” to Earth and my serendipitous discovery of Robert, without which we might never have learned anything about his actual background. Suddenly I recalled asking prot, the first time he was under hypnosis, to relate the earliest experience he could remember. He replied, without hesitation, that it was Robert’s father’s funeral. Now he was claiming that he could remember being born, and even before. Could this be the wedge, the key, the inconsistency in his story I had been searching for?
Karen shouted that lunch was ready. The previous evening had been her retirement dinner, and nearly everyone there got up to tell a story about her career as a psychiatric nurse in one of Connecticut’s finest general hospitals. For example, a colleague reminded us of the time she had missed lunch, and he had found her eating the leftovers of some of the patients, who later complained that they hadn’t finished yet.