Alien Surfboard To Heaven

 

"Ever wonder what happens when you die? And what about aliens? Do they exist? And, if so, what part do they play in humankind's evolution as a species, both physically and as spiritual beings seeking collective enlightenment? Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and ride the Alien Surfboard To Heaven. All your questions will be answered experientially, to your complete intellectual and visceral satisfaction. All for the low, low price of..." 

I dreamed I was living in Arizona. Far from being the surfing capital of the world, it was odd that the aliens would have chosen it as a launchpad for their "Surfboard To Heaven" campaign. But perhaps it was because of its remoteness from all things ocean, which made the promise of eternal life in the endless summer of a Beach Boys song so appealing to the demographic.

At first just a few random surfboards were left laying around the town. People would find them at bus stops or out on their lawns in the morning. It didn't appear to be part of a giant marketing strategy; it just looked like someone had abandoned their surf gear for a moment. Surely, someone would be along to claim them. But no one ever claimed any of these surfboards, and as the accumulation of abandoned boards grew, their presence in the city became a both a nuisance and a cause for wild speculation.

Along with the surfboards, karaoke machines started to crop up in random places. First a microphone would be left, say on a park bench or a picnic table. Someone would inevitably pic up the mic, find that it was live, and begin singing into it, invariably to some surf related song. Soon little tiki themed refreshment bars, reminiscent of  children's lemonade stands or fireworks kiosks, began to appear, always in proximity to a stack of surfboards. 

What was happening was that these people who would pick up the mic would somehow become connected to an extraterrestrial soul-harvesting enterprise and become unwitting hawkers for the alien agenda. The surfboards were markers for people whose souls had been plucked.

My stepdad Greg found one of these microphones on a bus stop and offered it to me. As I contemplated the possible consequences of singing into it, I suddenly recoiled. I looked up into the sky and saw a swirling vortex of black surfboards, spiraling up into the heavens, like a funnel cloud made of DNA strands. These were the souls of humans on their way to the afterlife. 

"You'd better drop that mic," I told him. "You don't want to wind up like them." I pointed to the darkening sky.

"How do you know that, Andrew?" he countered. "Maybe that's just where I want to wind up. Did you ever think of that? Maybe it's all surfing and suntans, bikinis and beach parties up there. Do you know for a fact that that's not the case?"

I was silenced. Perhaps the ominous looking shuttle service did land one in a tropical paradise; I had no way of knowing. But I wasn't ready to jump just yet. I still had a few more years of natural life to live out, and I was going to stick to the walking path rather than taking the bullet train. 

 

I just got off the phone with my psychiatrist. He is now offering me a thyroid medication called T3, as an alternative treatment for my depression, mainly because I am so low energy, and also because he isn't a fan of conventional anti-depressants. We are looking for a magic bullet, one that can go straight to the problem, without taking out major organs in the process.

It occurs to me that the dream I had was a subtle metaphor warning me against the idea of a quick easy fix. Magic always comes with a price. The devil will always exact his payment at some point. And, as they say, there is no free lunch.