Blake's Tweak (cont.)

I woke up two days later and watched Blake inserting small pieces of stale glazed doughnuts into his mouth, chewing slowly. He was mostly stoic, but sitting in front of the monitor reviewing his tweak, trembling slightly. His quiet observations were interrupted by sudden fits of gleeful cackling as he admired his flashes of brilliance. Sick. There's nothing more pathetic than a man consumed with delusions of his own genius. It may be fear or weakness of will, but I've never been able to draw the line between egoism and narcissism, and dare not even approach it. Blake never had such apprehension, and was now standing on his chair performing a lurid gesture with his hips and arms reminiscent of the boy's corner at a high school dance. What is ugly for an adolescent is most undignified for a grown man. I closed my eyes and tried, in vain, to drift back to sleep.

Yes, his work was clever. It was a breakthrough. I would be proud if I had found it. But, the discovery relied on decades of scientific research and was aided with million-dollar super computers and specialized software–the work of thousands. Blake's tweak would have been attempted eventually. Maybe 10 years later, maybe 20. The find was inevitable. He just wound his way through the labyrinth faster. Some of his leaps were aided by either an impossibly sensitive intuitive understanding, or blind luck, or some combination of the two. I suspect more of the latter. Forgive me. There is some serenity required of a professional man whose lifetime achievements have just been dwarfed by a man frantically gyrating on a chair while wearing underwear on his head. I was not getting back to sleep.

Idiosyncrasies aside, we had our personal sun. It was a fact. It was nothing to dwell on or obsess over. Some might consider it time for celebration, but I thought nothing of the sort. My response was sober and unexpected. This was not something to admire or envy. This achievement was something to loathe. It was an obligation. Imagine the deaths, every moment, around the world that could be prevented by unlimited free power? Imagine the human suffering that could be eliminated. What have we done? Jesus. What the fuck were we doing standing idly by as the planet choked in a fog of carbon emissions and fountains of spewing oil? In my first sober assessment of the situation a worrisome clarity set in. There was not pride, but guilt. It took hold–this unfortunate, detestable sense of obligation that seemed to well within me. I imagined the scorn of the world's poor and suffering at my idleness, even in these first moments. I imagined I was The Catcher in the Rye, but fumbling children off the cliff to their death instead of catching them. It was a type of slavery, beholden to humanity. Then, the real beast struck–paranoia. It descended like thick fog in a small arena of hungry lions. I was killing people every moment in my stupor. If there was a hell, I was going there. If there was a hell, I was roasting there for eternity...

Blake sat down and began his acid dropping ritual, carefully scanning the cornucopia of glassware, baggies, pill bottles and miscellaneous paraphernalia neatly arranged in his deep desk drawer. Choosing the perfect specimen, he set the bottle carefully on his desk and smacked his hands together, rubbing them aggressively. He liked to sort of trump-up the event, and began his unconscious humming. It was usually something classical when he dropped acid; this time, Stravinsky. His melody transformed to rhythmic grunting as the mood was set, a shrine of candles illuminating his dark workstation with a stick of opium-scented incense emitting strands of blue smoke. I was now securely awake, but still–a voyeur under the sheets. Blake's behavior was often painful to watch. I did not approve of his drug habits, and only tolerated them by necessity. He was too useful to the project to dismiss for relatively petty lifestyle choices, and I dared not interrupt. I observed that Blake must have come to different conclusions regarding our place in this universe than I had. Rather than disappointment, I felt a sort of a relief, however irrational. Somehow his attitude gave him credibility, like a drunk general walking calmly through a hail of bullets, emerging unscathed. Even if it was crazy and meaningless, it was a sort of comfort. I felt my stiff shoulders begin to release. It was his celebration, his reward, and maybe he deserved it. Maybe he had earned it. Who was I to judge? Maybe he knew what he was doing more than I. Maybe I comprehended nothing at all and he held all the answers. Although, even if that was the case, I feared the worst as I watched him gently dip the eyedropper into the bottle of high-powered LSD, lifting the small glass tube to his mouth. He paused, and then his head fell back as he moved the dropper over his left eye. This was a special occasion. I hadn't seen Blake window pane since his first day in the lab. The tiny drop fell into his left eye, then his right. He was completely still for several moments, then placed the dropper on the desk and let his arms fall to his sides, his head drooping farther back behind the chair. His trip began immediately. I decided I needed a drink, and entertainment. I wasn't prepared to deal with the gravity of what was going on–it was a sinister form of delirium that could be cured only with sweet beer, but also resolve, courage. I did not need insanity thrust upon me. I needed insanity of my own device. I decided to fuck with him.

I pulled the blue and orange striped blanket over my head and stood next to the bed, slowly extending my arms to each side. I couldn't see anything. A peek hole would have ruined the effect. I began to sway and listened closely. Silence. Good. It was working. To Blake I surely had become the embodiment of his worst nightmare–a melting alien poltregeist or something. I began to amble towards him.

Silence.

I didn't usually do this. In fact, I never did. Messing with a man in an acid binge is not advised under any circumstances, and who knows what else he had taken. But, at this point, something told me I needed to freak him out. Maybe I needed to expose the irresponsibility of his drug use. Maybe it was an urge to awaken him–to illustrate our new responsibility. Or, maybe I just needed to escape. Whatever the cause, it felt like an imperative, however out-of-character.

Closer, closer...

Finally, when I could see his shoe below the blanket I leaned in. The bulge of my skull must have appeared to him as some mutant hippopotamus or something. I was certain he was terrified and trembling.

When I was certain he was huddled against the back of his chair in psychedelic terror, I lifted the blanket and threw it aside. To my dismay, his stiff middle finger dominated my field of view, the two prominent knuckles and fingernail extended firmly in front of my face. He rescinded his hand, flicked the lighter with his thumb and began to gurgle on his bong again. I had never tried acid, and this fact had never been quite so pitifully clear. By now the water in his contraption was a revolting black slurry. I winced. We needed to get out of there.

I looked at the time: 11:30 PM. I stepped into some jeans.

"Get dressed. We're going to the bar."

"I am dressed."

The elastic band of his briefs extended around the circumference of his head. He was wearing one sock. Otherwise, he was naked. I threw him a shirt and a pair of overalls.

"Put these on. We invented a sun, Blake. We need to talk this over and I need a beer."

Blake held the overalls in front of him. He examined them, or admired them, or God knows what. Ug.

I don't want to dwell on it, but skipping Blake's 'life speed' would be irresponsible in any narrative including him...

Inspiring Blake to do anything was a challenge, if not altogether impossible. Whatever cocktail of narcotics he was on, even coke or speed, his tempo was frustratingly slow. Sure his mannerisms might turn twitchy and animated, but his rate of efficiency remained at a constant, infuriating gear: super low. On this occasion, he set the bong on the table and carefully dipped one leg in the overalls, and then the other. Thinking about it makes me impatient and twitchy, and right now my writing pace will turn frantic if I let it get to me. It was everything–dressing, eating, walking, absolutely everything except coding (where he suddenly trans mutated into a Tasmanian Devil). My sentiments regarding his pace were a well-guarded secret, of course. I didn't let on how much it bothered me as it would have only decelerated him. I just ate it as he meticulously buttoned, unbuttoned, then re buttoned the overalls. This was his little tyranny, voluntary or not. His little reign of terror, striking every time I prodded him to move his ass. His little kingdom of laziness was either a brutal tactic or some incomprehensible cognitive handicap. I had to assume the latter.

Finally, we got to the bar. I took the blindfold off of Blake and we walked in. It was midnight. We only had two short hours till last call. It was time to get busy...