Constraint

What are the chances he'll be invited to the moon launch?

Word Count: 799

“F01 this is Toby 4, we got her.”

The officer’s leather gloves clicked the transmission off and gripped the smooth, grey steering wheel.

“I’m a man for crying out loud! Who is she?”

“Oh no, we’re talking about someone else.”

Roger stared in a panic out the window. He had been collected from an endless mining site, and his beige sedan still sat parked on the edge of a cliff. It was determined that he had not been suicidal, but he was not present in his mind.

“Trump was there, Steven van Zandt cracked me up. McConaughey. Matthew frickin’ McConaughey was there! Did you ever get to hear ‘alright, alright, alright’ live in person? He told me to just keep living. There’s not much more to it than that.”

Officer Toby drove with cautious ease, genuinely curious to hear Roger’s story. A quick evaluation determined that this kid (mid-20’s had changed a lot since his youth) was destabilized and his thought process was not linear. There was the mention of the day’s newly elected president and various celebrities. Ex-presidents such as Nixon and Ford. He understood this youth was a major fan of what was a mythical, mystical, yet very real Kokomo. There was an earnest plea in his beliefs.

“Things aren’t going to change until the old generation dies.”

Toby could only listen. There were truths he could glean, but they seemed to be hidden behind fears, panics, and paranoia. They were headed to the hospital.

The question remaining was the timeline of Roger’s recovery.

The ore mine was more of a white dirt desert. Roger had spent about fifteen minutes wandering on site, but it had really been a month or so of sheer shameful mania. Instagram posts of homeless shelters, a video of his sister’s mailbox accompanied by Big Sean’s “Bounce Back,” and an unusual obsession with all things Kardashian. Stringing together the threads of the delusions were not the officer’s bread and butter. But he listened.

“If planet earth can make it to the age of Aquarius, embrace the alien life forms incoming, and amend our ways, we’ll be just fine. But right now we’ve got people at the top that are dictating to our minds our very own thoughts. The perversion of truth will become inevitable if we do not get it together! Does that make sense?”

“I voted for Trump, but I wanted Hillary to win.”

Toby wasn’t sure what to say, but he empathized. A lifelong Catholic, his vote went toward the pro-life future of the nation, and with reserve toward the trash talking politics that had come to dominate the air waves. He was tuned in to some of these ideas and he almost understood half of them.

“Well young man, we’re here. I’ll accompany you until the emergency workers arrive.”

In Roger’s mind those five minutes were flashes of blue and red, the depression and anger, the highs and lows, coursing through his neurons to manipulate his soul state into a base animal. He wasn’t ready to die, in his mind, but he feared for what awaited him in the hospital.

A brisk walking, stout, serious facing doctor approached the vehicle and invited the incoming patient to step out.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Brian Wilson and I’ll be attending to you today. Everything is going to be ok.”

The doctor turned fast to the officer, took notes of the vitals that had been collected, and dismissed him to attend to the domestic abuse case he had been referring to earlier on the transmitter. Toby loved his job; he loved being present to justice and peace. He knew that night he’d be sipping on a bourbon though. He pulled out, and looking back once, reflected on what the doctor would decide.

“I’ve heard your story, Roger. It’s compelling.”

That the doctor shared the name of his hero was enough to cement his own internal existential future convictions. Humanity was in a shared collective state, insofar as he was positive that the industries and complexes of his country did have plans, did have eyes, and there was no maybe that he had been screened by them. The hospital must have been a breeding ground for his immediate incarnation as a future Jenner influencer.

“You know that’s not what I ever wanted, you know. I wanted to write a book, make an album, and those royalties might have delivered me a fine fat farm in the green hills of Ireland. But I’ve made my decision. I’m ready to sign.”

He scribbled on the paper, believing it might be the most valuable autograph he’d ever sign. And who better than to a Beach Boy.

Dr. Wilson had decided too. Roger had authorized his own undetermined stay in the country’s future murder site state psychiatric hospital.