This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Noah chewed thoughtfully on a pulled pork sandwich as Cynthia, Carlos, and Monica finished recounting their story. The sun had long since been replaced by a bright panoply of stars in a cloudless sky. A fire in the middle of the ongoing drum circle cast flickering shadows across the four companions.
“Jumped out of a train, huh?” Noah’s demeanor was calm and accepting.
“Yeah,” answered Cynthia.
“And got caught in a battle on the Bulge?”
“Battle of the Bulge Part 2,” corrected Monica. “Moronic Boogaloo.”
“Right, right,” he chuckled. “That’s… a lot.”
“I know,” replied Carlos. “And we hit a wall in the investigation, so we’d really appreciate your help in letting us review some core samples taken from around the Bulge just to see if there’s anything going on underground that we missed.”
“Yeah, no problem. My lab opens tomorrow morning and I’d be happy to take you there, but first,” he pointed his sandwich at Cynthia and Carlos. “It seems like you two could use this ayahuasca ceremony more than just about anyone else here.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Carlos. “I’m not really one for recreational drug use.”
Noah shook his head.
“Good, because ayahuasca isn’t a recreational drug. It’s medicine. It’s a gateway to insight, self-examination, inspiration, and, most importantly, cleansing—something, I think, that could help you both.”
Carlos shifted uncomfortably and looked at Cynthia. She shrugged her shoulders.
“This isn’t like coke, or molly, or anything else you’re likely to come across at a concert, or club, or whatever,” continued Noah, noticing their apprehension. “It’s a guided ritual practiced for centuries that helps you shed your ego, preconceptions, and anxieties. It really is life changing. But look, I’m not going to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do. The choice is absolutely yours. You’re welcome to join us if you like and, if not, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Noah finished his sandwich, stood from the ground, and made his way toward the tea lights, where several other participants were gathering. Monica also rose from the rapidly shrinking circle. The drumming stopped to the sound of a collective celebratory shout and the percussionists began saying their goodbyes.
“Well, kiddos, I’m going to drop acid with some strangers. Here you go.” she tossed Carlos her keys and narrowed her eyes at them both. “Just don’t fuck in the van.”
“You want to do this?” asked Carlos once they were alone.
“Yeah, no, I don’t know, maybe,” vacillated Cynthia in prototypical Miami diction. “I could use a little bit of cleansing and inspiration right now. I’m game if you are.”
Carlos stared wide-eyed at the ground while he thought it over.
“Yeah, fuck it,” he replied. “When’s the next chance I’ll get to do this? And God knows I’d probably benefit from dropping some of my anxieties and preconceptions. Let’s do it.”
They walked across the meadow toward the tea lamps. Their soft yellow glow illuminated a circle of radiating yoga mats. They looked like multicolored petals, each with a large metal bucket next to it. Standing in the pistil of this ceremonial flower was Sherman, who had started briefing a half dozen people, the only others left in the meadow after the drummers had departed. Dreadlocks on a white guy were usually a massive red flag for Cynthia and Carlos, but he spoke so knowingly and so serenely that it allayed most of their apprehension. They sat on two empty mats beside each other.
“Welcome my friends!” exclaimed Sherman with a broad smile as he saw them take their places.
Cynthia and Carlos waved at the shaman and the other participants, most of whom greeted them back, some with enthusiasm, others with trepidation. Noah, sitting opposite them in the circle, was one of the former.
“My name is Sherman,” he pressed a hand to his heart. “I studied and trained to become an ayahuasca facilitator for a year among the tribes living in Peru’s and Colombia’s Andean high rainforest. This will be the 42nd ceremony I’ve led and I can tell by looking around that some of you are a bit nervous, but I promise you’ll be OK.”
An uneasy chuckle rose from the group.
“I’ve never seen anyone injure themselves, or lose their minds, or anything like that after taking this medicine,” continued Sherman. “I won’t lie to you though; it can be a difficult experience. Physically, it is perfectly normal to laugh, cry, vomit, and yes, even diarrhea.”
Carlos’ eyes bulged in panic. He looked at Cynthia, who shook her head. They’d committed. It was too late to back out now.
“These are all perfectly normal, healthy, and good reactions,” said Sherman as he slowly paced the inside of the circle, making eye contact with the people sitting on the edges of their mats. “That’s what the buckets are for. Use them as you need them. The Andean tribes believe that these are cleansing actions. They will remove the stress, depression, and self-hatred modern Western society has built in your body.”
An owl hooted from high up a nearby slash pine. A cool wind blew across the pond into the grove, filling it with the smell of blooming bromeliads and damp earth.
“It is also very common to experience hallucinations,” he went on. “This is also good. You might encounter people you know, people who have passed, spirits, gods, animals. This is good. Talk to them if they’re willing. Listen to what they have to say. Let go of your defensiveness. Much of what you’ll experience, humans simply don’t have the language to describe. This is also good. We are all on our personal journeys and we take what we can from them. I will be here guiding you throughout the night. I won’t let anything bad happen to you and I’ll help you work through anything distressing you see, hear, or feel.”
Two assistants brought a pair of large platters—each filled with dozens of clay mugs holding a thick, dark brown liquid—and placed them in front of Sherman.
“You will drink four cups tonight. You’ll know when to drink them because I will ring a bell to inform you.”
He pulled a small brass bell from a hoodie pocket and rang it. Its crisp tone bounced among the trees.
“You may feel disoriented at times. You may want to quit the ceremony. You may hate the way you feel. But, through all that, I want you to keep a single thought in your head: drink, don’t think.”
Cynthia considered cracking a joke about how she manifested that mantra every weekend.
“Drink, don’t think,” repeated Sherman. “That means you just ignore the sensations and visions you may be experiencing, and simply drink the next cup when the bell tells you to.”
He smiled again at the participants.
“Before we begin. I want you all to consider what you want from this ceremony. What is your intention? Do you want to heal yourself physically, spiritually, psychologically, emotionally? Do you want to connect with yourself, learn who you really are? Do you want to process trauma? Do you want help making a decision or filling a void? Is it something completely different, something no one else understands? Or do you want to discover your intention through your journey? These, and many others, are all good reasons for being here tonight.”
A minute of silence passed while Cynthia vacillated between different potential intentions. Eventually, unable to decide, she told herself she’d just find out as she went.
“OK, everyone,” said Sherman. “We’ve come to the point where your journeys begin. I ask that you all enter the middle of the circle, take a cup, and return to your seats.”
Cynthia rose, shuffled to the platters, grabbed a mug, and walked back to her mat.
“It might take a bit for the first dose to kick in. Feel free to sit, lie down, or walk about as you wait. I just ask that you come back to your mats when your perception starts to change. Also, be careful and don’t wander around too far. Noah tells me that there’s a sinkhole just beyond the meadow.”
He once more took the bell out of his hoodie.
“With that, I wish you an illuminating journey.”
The bell’s clear tone rang across the meadow.
“Good luck!” said Cynthia to Carlos with a nervous grin.
“You too!” he replied.
They both downed their mugs. The liquid was thick and sour and stuck to the back of Cynthia’s throat. It took some effort but she swallowed it all.
Copying the participants around her, Cynthia lay back on her mat and stared up at the stars. She tried to make out the constellations she’d learned as a child, but nothing came to mind. They just looked like a random assortment of twinkling lights. Cynthia closed her eyes and exhaled. She waited a while. Her stomach rumbled to let her know it didn’t agree with the drink. And yet, nothing really happened.
She sat up. Carlos sat cross-legged beside her, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. She stood, approached Sherman, and opened her mouth.
“It’s OK to wander around,” he said before she could ask. “Just remember to come back when the medicine starts to affect your perception.”
She nodded.
Cynthia walked to the pond and marveled at the glittering stars reflected in its surface. A night heron barked overhead while alligators grumbled at each other somewhere deep in the sawgrass.
A few miles to the south, the Bulge’s yellow-orange lights blotted out a quarter of the sky. Cynthia scowled. It was like throwing fluorescent dye on a masterpiece painting and calling it progress. To her left, the full moon began its nighttime ascent. She stared at its silvery surface, enormous as it emerged from between the pines, and her face relaxed.
Then, out of her peripheral vision, the stars all jumped a few inches to the right.
Cynthia snapped her head in all directions, staring at the sky intently, skeptical, unwilling to admit she’d been fooled by the universe. But the stars remained rooted in place, perhaps sharing a little laugh at the trick they just pulled.
Cynthia heard a low rumble and then a high-pitched squeal from behind her. Ignoring every lesson she’d ever learned from horror movies, she turned away from the pond, walked through the meadow, and entered the underbrush.
The palmettos bent and parted away from her, forming a smooth dirt path through the otherwise featureless rockland. The slash pine waved in the breeze and leaned ever so slightly forward, down the trail, toward the source of the sounds.
They grew louder and more familiar the closer she approached, alternating and blending baritone groans, falsetto squeaks, and shrill clicks. Something was trying to communicate with her, but she couldn’t quite make out the language.
“Whale song,” muttered Cynthia.
She went to take a step, but the ground disappeared below her foot. Cynthia twisted around and fell to her stomach, grasping desperately at rocks and roots as her body slipped into the chasm. Grabbing a tentative hold of a sabal palm’s rough, leathery trunk, she stopped her fall and lurched back to her feet.
Panting and shaken, Cynthia stared at the 30-foot-wide inkwell she’d almost tumbled into. Its darkness seemed anathema to the glimmering stars above, to the plants around her, to the animals she heard rustling in the undergrowth. It was beyond black, beyond shadow. It was anti-light, its very nemesis, enemy to all things alive and beautiful.
Cynthia patted the dirt off her shirt and jeans.
“Must be the sinkhole,” she gasped.
Thin, dark arms rose from the hole’s interior. They grasped at Cynthia’s head, crawled into her nose, down her throat, and made her gag.
And yet the whale song continued. Cynthia tottered on the edge of the hole, nauseated and lightheaded, but desperate to understand what it said.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked as her vision blurred.
The singing voice said something just on the edge of comprehension.
“What?” asked Cynthia. She leaned precariously over the pit. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
The lilting song condensed into a concept and then a single word.
“Run,” it whispered.
Cynthia ripped herself from the shadow that had almost enveloped her and sprinted toward the meadow, the trees making way for her, the world rushing past, as the darkness followed, grabbing at her heels while she ran. She burst back into the open, wheezing and coughing for air when she heard a bell ring.
“It’s time for your second cup,” said Sherman.
Cynthia stumbled toward the center of the circle and grabbed the shaman by the arm.
“The darkness… the darkness is coming,” she exclaimed. “It’s coming! We have to…”
Sherman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Drink, don’t think,” he said.
“We have to run… We have to run right now…”
“Drink, don’t think,” he repeated, and gave her another cup.
His voice was so calm, his face so placid, that she simply acquiesced and downed the contents of the mug.
Sherman led Cynthia by the arm to her mat.
“You’re on your way now,” he said. “Don’t fight it but try to stay put if you can.”
He left to care for his other wards.
Cynthia turned to Carlos, who was still sitting on his mat.
“I think things are starting to get weird for me,” she said. “How are you doing?”
Carlos turned to look at her, his eyes unfocused, and smiled.
“Oh, it’s going pretty great…”
He lunged for his bucket and vomited. Monica leaned over and rubbed his back as he retched repeatedly.
“You’re… so… pretty…” he said between bouts.
Cynthia smiled.
“You’re pretty too,” she replied, patting his shoulder.
Once she was sure Carlos was OK, Cynthia lay back down and stared at the stars. The cheeky bastards just stared right back, all impishness and mirth. That’s when they played their greatest trick on her yet and began to fold in on themselves.
Cynthia’s eyes widened.
“Ah fuck,” she said. “It’s happening.”
The sky split into triangular creases that bent and crimped at incomprehensible angles, their crisp edges overlapping each other into a universe-wide origami. Only, it never formed a final shape, but just kept folding and turning Ad infinitum.
Cynthia shut her eyes, but the vision continued unimpeded. She started to cry. Noticing her distress, the stars ceased their game and unfolded back into their usual display. They apologized for taking things too far.
“You mean it?” she asked between tears.
Of course they did.
“OK, I forgive you.”
She wiped snot from her nose.
They politely inquired if they could change their shapes just one more time. You see, remaining discrete points of light through an entire night was just so boring.
“Alright,” she answered between sniffles. “Just please don’t make it scary.”
They promised.
The stars rotated slowly, their lights streaking behind them to form glittering concentric circles separated by thin dark rings.
“Ohhhh…” marveled Cynthia. “That’s pretty.”
Of course it was. They’d been doing it for long enough.
Cynthia gaped at the display, which grew to take up her entire field of vision. Eventually the trees, mat, ground, wind, Carlos, everything disappeared. She was simply suspended in the middle of an immeasurable sphere composed of alternating white and black threads.
Directly before her, where the circles disappeared into a single, consolidated point, Cynthia noticed movement. A Florida kingsnake slithered toward her, its black and yellow crossbands glistening in the starlight. It started off tiny, but the closer it approached, the larger it became. By the time it circled Cynthia, piling its body into a wall around her, a single scale on its body had grown wider than her hand, its dark, unblinking eyes the size of her head.
The snake reared above and flicked its tongue curiously in her direction. Sensing no malice on its part, Cynthia remained calm.
“I remember reading in middle school that you aren’t poisonous. You’re not supposed to be dangerous to humans,” she said, craning her neck to maintain eye contact. “Is that true?”
The kingsnake nodded.
“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
It shook its head, no.
“I didn’t think so. You’re a very beautiful snake.”
It bashfully turned its head and wagged the tip of its tail at her.
“Something tells me you’re a guardian, a gatekeeper, here to decide if I can continue this journey.”
It nodded again.
“Is it OK if I keep going?”
The snake waffled its head from side to side.
“For what it’s worth, I feel like I can.”
It raised the snake equivalent of an eyebrow, frowned slightly, and then thought better of it. The kingsnake would allow Cynthia to progress.
It shrunk, uncoiling its body from around her. As it went, the scales blended together. Its head sprouted long black hair. The snake morphed into something bipedal—growing shoulders, arms, and legs—something human, something feminine, something… her mother.
Cynthia stared in shock as Matilda Burgos materialized before her in an orange nightgown. She had the same furrowed brow and skeptical expression Cynthia was so familiar with from childhood. The lines on her mother’s face were less deep than she had become accustomed to as an adult, the veins in her arms less pronounced. Standing twice Cynthia’s height, Matilda towered over her daughter. The many bangles on both wrists clanged together as she placed her hands on her hips.
“We speak English in this household, missy!” exclaimed Matilda in her heavy accent.
“But I’m Panamanian!” Cynthia whined and stamped her foot. “I want to learn Spanish!’
“We are American!” boomed Matilda.
“Then why do I always hear you and Papi talking to each other in Spanish?”
“Because that is our language! It is what we grew up with. We sacrificed everything so you could be born in this country, be born an American, learn English, eat corndogs, go to college, snowboard, and do all the other tonterías los gringos[1] like to do.”
“But I want to be like you and Papi!” complained Cynthia. “I want to understand what you’re saying. I want to understand what everyone else around me is saying. I want to be part of what you’re a part of.”
Matilda’s face grew sad and her voice pensive.
“Querida,”[2] she said. “You don’t want to be like us. We fought our entire lives to make sure you wouldn’t have to experience our suffering.”
Matilda shrank, growing older as she went. Eventually, she was reduced to a head shorter than her daughter. Her wrinkles became more pronounced, the bangles fit more loosely around her thin wrists, the night gown slipped from one shoulder.
“I want you to be happy, m’hija!”[3] said Matilda as tears welled in her eyes. “I see you lost, suffering, fighting battles I hoped to protect you from, but there’s nothing I can do. I can’t protect mi niña[4] anymore!”
“You don’t need to protect me, Mami,” replied Cynthia. Seeing her mother so despondent, so scared on her behalf, was like a knife in the gut. “Please don’t cry, Mami. Please be happy. I’ll be OK, I promise.”
Cynthia ran into her mother’s arms and hugged her, repositioning the night gown back on her bare shoulder.
“Quizás, ahora que ya eres adulta, podremos practicar tu español cuando visites,”[5] said Matilda.
“Me encantaría,”[6] answered her daughter.
The two cried deeply into each other’s shoulders for a long time.
When Cynthia dropped her embrace, her mother had been replaced by a young woman with high cheekbones and dark hair styled into a flapper haircut. She wore a loose beige dress that fell just above her knees and short, two-toned heels.
“Who are you?” asked Cynthia in shock.
“Soy Clara González de Behringer,” replied the woman with an inviting smile. “La primera abogada panameña, activista feminista y cofundadora del Partido Nacional Feminista.”[7]
“Oh wow!” gushed Cynthia. “I’m honored!”
She stopped and looked about, a bit confused.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, because it’s amazing to meet you, but what are you doing here?”
“Solo vine a recordarte algo bastante obvio que, por cualquier razón, todavía no has aprendido.”[8]
“What’s that?”
“La latinidad se encuentra en el corazón, no en la garganta o en la boca.”[9]
She lightly touched Cynthia’s chest and disappeared. Cynthia wasn’t sure what she meant, but she felt a weight lifted from her shoulders and a new lightness in her body.
A shadow fell across her, a looming presence approaching from behind. Cynthia turned slowly.
A gold medallion, three feet across, floated before her. On its left hemisphere was the word “HONORIS.” “CAUSA” was emblazoned on the right. The lower quadrant read “AWARDED BY COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY TO CYNTHIA BURGOS.” Replacing Ben Franklin between the three passages, was the bust of Joseph Pulitzer in full profile, wearing a high-collared suit and bowtie. With a chiseled jaw, prominent nose, beard, magnificent mustache, and full head of hair slicked up and back, Cynthia admitted he looked quite handsome.
His one visible eyelid popped open. A golden eye rotated in its socket and focused on Cynthia.
“Hi, um, Mr. Pulitzer…” hesitated Cynthia. “It’s an honor…”
“Jezebel!” he said.
“Wait, what?” asked Cynthia.
“Harlot!”
She stared at him in confusion.
“Floozy! Hussy! Strumpet!” he continued in a pronounced Hungarian accent.
“Hey, now,” she protested. “There’s no need for that.”
“Accuracy is to a newspaper what virtue is to a woman!” he declared. “I actually said that, you know. And I find both your journalism and your virtue lacking!”
“That’s really sexist,” Cynthia could feel the anger rising in her core and flushing her face. “I don’t care if you lived in the Gilded Age, who the hell are you to judge me?”
“All I do is judge you!” he laughed. “And you love it! You want me specifically because I judge you, judge if you’re worthy of my esteem, the reputation and success I can bestow upon you.”
His voice lowered to a growl. “You want me so fucking bad.” He spoke the words slowly, savoring every syllable.
Carlos’ naked body materialized below the medallion so Pulitzer’s head, still in profile, rested on its shoulders.
“Admit it,” he said. “You fucking want me. I mean, just looked at me!” his hands swept from his abs to his groin. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Ugh!” she cried in disgust. “Not if you’re going to be like that!”
“Come on Cynthia!” he approached closer. “You want me!”
Cynthia backed away but Pulitzer hopped toward her, gyrating his hips so his penis spun like a helicopter blade.
“Hey! You think Carlos would be interested in a polycule?”
“Get away from me, you creep!” she screamed.
He continued his advance, penis still spinning.
“Can you take us both at the same time? We have a whole lot to work with. Would you even survive that?”
Cynthia shut her eyes and yelled.
“I don’t want you!”
“Yes, you do! You always have! You always will!”
“I don’t want you!”
“You want me, Cynthia Burgos!”
“I don’t want you! I don’t want you! I don’t want you!”
[1] Foolishness the Americans
[2] My love.
[3] My daughter.
[4] My girl!
[5] “Maybe, now that you’re an adult, we can practice your Spanish when you come visit.”
[6] “I’d love that.”
[7] “I am Clara González de Behringer, the first female Panamanian lawyer, feminist activist, and cofounder of the National Feminist Party.
[8] I just came to remind you of something pretty obvious that, for whatever reason, you still haven’t learned yet.
[9] Latinidad [sorry, there’s no direct English translation] is found in your heart, not in your throat or mouth.
