by Ken Dickson
Maybe my actions then were a consequence of almost dying and surviving the suffering brought on by uncaring medical and mental health professionals. However, I now saw things differently: if I did not go down this path, people would suffer needlessly, and chaos would ensue as changed people mixed with normal people, and everyone tried to make sense of what was going on with no one really having a clue. I imagined the loneliness, confusion and danger a solitary changed person would face among people who could not accept him. Not only could it end the potential of this gift for humanity before it even had a chance, it could lead to his demise. Something had to be done.
Reluctantly, I shook the dust from my plans for Utopia for the first time as a truly bona fide changed person with others right on my heels and began to brainstorm. The first thing I concluded was that the name Utopia had to go. If there was one thing I could change in my life, it would be that name. Perhaps there was merit to some of my ideas, but whenever I mentioned Utopia, people would universally roll their eyes or tell me point-blank that I was crazy. They didn’t get that it was just a name.
It was paramount that I distance myself from that name to avoid the stigma attached to it, both from my own past and from society’s viewpoint as a whole. After much thought, a new name crystallized: Amistad, Spanish for friendship. That name perfectly symbolized my vision, wiped the white board clean, and breathed new life and possibilities into my former vision.
Having taken that first step, my mind reopened to opportunities along those lines. In no time, one arrived in the form of an unexpected phone call.
“Jessie. What a pleasant surprise.”
“You don’t mind me calling, do you?”
“I wouldn’t have given you my number if I did.”
“I figure that we’re birds of a feather now—we should stick together.”
“I guess so. What’s up?”
“I have a great opportunity for you. A psychologist friend is fascinated by people like us. He’d like to talk to you. He must think you’re pretty special. He told me to tell you that it would be no charge.”
“Hmm. That sounds intriguing. Tell me about him.” Over the next few minutes, she told me what little she knew, starting with the story behind his name.
“I wish I could tell you more. Unfortunately, we’ve mostly always talked about me.”
“That’s understandable in light of your history with him. He sounds like an interesting fellow. Have him give me a call.”
“Great. You’ll like him. Besides being very knowledgeable, he’s very personable. Listen, I have to go, but give me a call sometime. I’d love to talk more.”
“I’ll do that.”
A short time later, Merry called to schedule an appointment.
***
On May 11, 2012, I opened the heavy oak door to Merry’s suite on the bottom floor of a freshly painted two-story, white stucco office building. A blast of cool, air-conditioned air and tranquil New Age music greeted me. A woman with striking platinum blonde shoulder-length hair sitting behind a counter turned as I entered and slid open a glass partition. “May I help you?” she asked as I approached.
“Yes, I have an appointment to see Dr. Merry at ten.”
“Sign in on the next open line,” she indicated, handing me a clipboard and a pen.
“I love your necklace.” The silver chain of her necklace followed the line of her v-necked turquoise blouse perfectly until it converged at a rectangular turquoise pendant.
“Why, thank you. Dr. Merry will be with you shortly. If you’d like some water or tea, there’s hot and cold water available from the dispenser.” She pointed toward the water dispenser six feet away. “There are cups and a selection of tea on the table next to it.”
I wrote my name on the sheet and handed back the clipboard and pen. The waiting room smelled pleasantly of spice or incense, and the subdued lighting from scattered reading lamps made me feel right at home. I took a seat in one of a half-dozen olive green lounge chairs placed around coffee tables and scrutinized the various magazines that lay in neat rows on the table in front of me. I settled on a recent Popular Science and began perusing it.
Before long, Dr. Merry opened a corner door and stepped into the room. I couldn’t help but notice how healthy and vibrant he looked. Casually dressed in a short sleeved, blue-gray button-down shirt and dark blue slacks, he appeared to be in his early forties. His deep brown eyes studied me calmly from behind dark, plastic-framed glasses. A closely trimmed beard perfectly outlined his warm smile, and his short, dark hair clearly didn’t require a lot of fuss.
“Hi, Ken. I’m Dr. Merry. You can call me Merry if you’d like—everybody does. It’s wonderful to meet you.” He shook my hand confidently.
“It’s great to meet you as well, Merry.” After Jessie shared the story behind his name, it seemed perfectly natural to call him that.
“Follow me, please.”
He led me through the door from which he’d entered. We passed a restroom on the left side of a short hallway and entered his office a few yards beyond that. He directed me to take a seat in one of several oversized lounge chairs and then sat in another facing me adjacent to his desk.
The room was a bit Spartan aside from a few floor lamps and an oak desk with a laptop and mouse, but several shelves on the walls immediately caught my eye. They were filled with intricate puzzles of all shapes and sizes, some made of exotic hardwoods, others of stainless steel and still others from cast bronze. Similar puzzles occupied his desk, with a heavier looking one acting as a paperweight to a small stack of papers and another in pieces beside his laptop.
“I’m glad that you could make it. I have to admit, it’s not often that I invite someone in free of charge. As a matter of fact, you are the first.”
“I guess I have Jessie to thank for that. She speaks very highly of you.”
“Jessie’s quite a gal. She’s come a long way since we first met, a very long way.” Momentarily distracted, he reached toward the puzzle next to his laptop and fit two pieces of it together. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to solve this puzzle for some time and haven’t made much headway, but sitting here, I saw something I didn’t notice before. Just goes to show you that sometimes, you just need to change your perspective.”
“As an engineer, I experience that a lot.”
“I can imagine. I’ll bet you’re curious why I invited you here.”
“Jessie told me that you’re interested in people like us.”
“As you know, I’m a psychologist. I counsel patients every day, and my success rate is commendable. However, from my own personal experience, I know that I could do better. How to actually do that is a puzzle that I’ve longed to solve for years. Some time ago, I worked with Jessie. Despite my best efforts, her situation continually worsened, until, through no intervention of my own, her life suddenly turned right-side-up—permanently.
“I like puzzles,” he continued, making a broad gesture toward the puzzles filling his office. “They all have solutions, some more difficult to find than others. Puzzles about people are the most challenging and fascinating of all. I couldn’t help but imagine what I could do if what happened to her could be reproduced. She could be the key to solving all of my patients’ puzzles.”
He picked up a nearby puzzle that just happened to consist of two interlocked keys. He held onto the end of one, letting the keys dangle from his index finger and thumb. “That’s what drives me. That’s why I do what I do.” He rotated his wrist and the keys separated. He caught the freed key with his other hand. “I thought that Jessie might be that key, but she tells me that she’s the way she is because of you. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
I’d been down this path before, and it had always proven to be a dead end. It was impossible for someone who had never experienced what I had to comprehend it, even if they were psychiatrists or psychologists. Nonetheless, I decided to take a chance. That’s why I’d come, after
all.
“Have you ever heard of a collapse of ego?”
“I’ve heard of the theory.”
“What if I told you that it was true? That I’ve experienced it?”
“I’d be very interested, of course, but what does it have to do with Jessie?”
“I think that my collapse of ego was contagious.” I paused for a moment to gauge his response. He remained collected.
“When did you experience this?”
“When I was manic in May of 2011.”
“And how would you describe it?”
“Like my bucket of hurt was emptied.”
“Meaning?”
“The baggage that we carry in our lives—pain over the past, worry about the future. Imagine your life without those boat anchors holding you fast. That’s my life.”
“But you’re not manic now, are you? And you have lasting effects?”
“No, I’m not manic, and yes, I have lasting effects.”
“And you say that Jessie contracted this collapse of ego from you?”
“She seems to have changed by interacting with me.”
“I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but I’ve never seen a miracle, and I’ve never seen anyone contract a change of psyche. Why on earth would you think that for the first time in history, you have something contagious that can do what you are saying?”
“Look, I know that it sounds crazy, but the reason I believe it is because Jessie is not the only one.”
I suddenly held his full attention. He set the key puzzle down on his desk, folded his hands, leaned forward in his chair and listened intently as I recounted my own story and those of Tim and Emma.
Chapter 11
THE MONEY TRAIN
With Jessie, Tim, and Emma’s changes pointing toward a great disparity, I could not in good conscience sit around and do nothing. But not only did my vision of Amistad require people like me, it fell flat without a critical resource: money. In that regard, a conversation kept returning to mind that occurred as I dined with Tim and my brother, Dana, at a local Chinese restaurant in May of 2011. Back then, I tried to convince them that changed people would work so well together that their companies would experience unprecedented efficiency and innovation. Consequently, profits would soar. If a person knew this ahead of time, they could purchase stock and make a killing.
Now, that seemingly absurd idea appeared to be my best bet to bankroll my vision. The people with whom Tim and I rubbed elbows didn’t escape me—everyone from cafeteria workers to the top brass in Chandler and engineers from all over the U.S., Europe, Asia and the Philippines. Those people interacted with companies outside of Nanosys: wafer foundries, assembly houses, printed circuit board manufacturers, equipment manufacturers, software vendors and patent law firms, just to name a few. The prospects were endless: far too great for me to analyze without help and sophisticated software tools.
I couldn’t help but think of what I could do with that kind of money, so rather than throw my hands up in despair, I did what I was trained to do—collect and analyze data. I started by creating a list of potential companies. Next, I imported their weekly stock prices into a spreadsheet for the entire preceding year. After that, I mathematically compared each stock’s performance against the DOW Jones Industrial Average and plotted the results using a different shade of color for each company.
As often happens when you view data in just the right way, trends otherwise lost in the noise become obvious. There was very little difference between most stocks and the DOW, but starting soon after Dr. Cree took me off medication, a small percentage of them, less than ten percent, split off from the rainbow of colors tracking the DOW like tree branches sprouting from a tree. The upward tendencies were hard to miss. I continued to track those stocks for a few weeks, and the steady growth persisted.
I’d gone as far as I could with my limited knowledge of the stock market. It was time to call on an expert: Matt Bently. Besides being a long-time family friend, he was Beth and my financial advisor and a man we both trusted. He managed all of our retirement investments.
“Smith-Lieberman Financial, this is Sally. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Sally. It’s Ken Dickson. Could I speak to Matt, please?”
“Certainly. I’ll put you through.”
The line went quiet for a few seconds and then Matt’s cheerful voice greeted me. “Good morning, Mr. Dickson. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to discuss some investment ideas. Do you have an open slot in the next few days?”
Matt wasn’t fond of “investment ideas” from clients. He particularly disliked dabbling in the stock market, preferring a long-term strategy in mutual funds. However, my portfolio had recently crossed the magic threshold at which investment firms give special treatment. Since then, he’d been a little more patient with my ideas. Still, I knew it would be a hard sell.
“Investment ideas, huh? Aren’t you satisfied with the performance of the funds you’re in now?” He waited for a response, but I held my tongue. “Let me check my calendar… I’ve got an opening Thursday, May 31st at noon. Should I pencil you in?”
“Yes. Thanks, Matt. I’ll see you then.”
“You’re welcome. Call me anytime.”
At eleven thirty-five on Thursday, I left work and headed for Smith-Lieberman, located on the top floor of a brand new office building on the south shore of Tempe’s Town Lake, an impressive facility in which Matt, a vice president of the firm, had an enviable office with a spacious mahogany desk and an expansive view of the lake. I parked my car and then walked from the four-story concrete parking structure to the six-story glass and stainless steel high-rise where Matt worked. I entered the building through two ten-foot-tall glass doors that opened automatically and said hello to the security guard, who stood up from behind his broad, intimidating desk centered just inside the entryway. He nodded stoically, wished me a good day and sat again as I passed. I then walked into the elevator and pressed six.
Moments later, the doors slid open on Matt’s floor. I turned to the right and made my way to his office. Sally, his secretary, greeted me. “Hi, Mr. Dickson. Matt’s waiting. You can go right in.”
As I approached his office, I could see Matt seated behind his desk, facing sideways and looking at his twenty-four-inch flat screen monitor, his reading glasses slid down his nose and not a hair out of place. When I first met him, he didn’t need reading glasses and his hair wasn’t peppered with gray. Despite those subtle changes, he looked as fit as ever. I knocked on the door frame.
“Ken Dickson. It’s been a while. How are you?”
“Fantastic,” I said as he stood and shook my hand.
“Have a seat. I hope that you’ve fully recovered from your medical misadventure last summer.”
“Yeah, it’s past history, like it never happened.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We were all concerned, and that cute wife of yours was really struggling. What’s on your mind?”
I explained to him that something was going on with the employees at Nanosys and that it was somehow contagious, but not in a conventional sense. The only symptoms were increased innovation, productivity and profits. Not only was it affecting them, it was having an impact on everyone they dealt with from subcontractors all the way up the food chain to customers.
“Matt, I know this might sound crazy, but if you take a look at this data and track the stocks I’ve highlighted, I think that you’ll see what I mean.”
“You know how I feel about stocks. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m a vice president, and I didn’t get here by making bad choices.” I braced myself for what I knew was coming. “As I’ve always said, past performance is no guarantee of future success. My advice to you is to stick with the plan we’ve followed all along—mutual funds.”
“This is different. If you look at these, I think you’ll find that I’m on to something, and it’s just the beginning. The
list of potentials is endless.”
For an instant, Matt wanted to slap some sense into me. “If it were anyone else, I’d show them the door, but since you’re one of my top clients, I’ll make an exception. Give me some time to look at what you’ve got. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, that’s it. Hey, the market’s been great lately. My funds have been up for five months straight.”
“Yeah, good times. Cross your fingers that it continues.”
I stood and so did he. I shook his hand and on a whim put a little extra into the handshake. I didn’t know if I was contagious the way I once envisioned—by a handshake—but if I was, it definitely wouldn’t hurt to have him on my team. I left his office and headed for the elevator.
***
Matt returned to his desk. He stroked his chin concernedly for a time and then reached for his phone. “Sally, can you put me through to Beth Dickson?” He picked up a pen and tapped it anxiously against the mahogany desk while he waited for the call to ring through.
“Beth? Matt Bently.”
“I haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope that you’re calling with good news—I could sure use some.”
“How’s Ken doing these days?”
“To be perfectly honest, he’s not been himself since his illness.”
“Oh? How so?”
“He comes up with the strangest ideas. I’m not sure whether they’re genius or lunacy, and I don’t really care. I just wish things could be the way they used to be.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but you know what they say: ‘for better or worse.’”
“I get it, and believe me, I’ve stuck through plenty, but he’s so complicated now that sometimes I just want to throw in the towel. I’d give anything to have my old Ken back.”
“I’m sure that he’ll come around. Have faith.”
“Thanks for taking the high road. Everyone else is advising me to call it quits.”