Test Subject

It’s been quite some time since I’ve contributed writing to this page. There’s an easy explanation for that: for five weeks I was a test subject for a new psychoactive drug at a university that shall go unnamed. Both friends and relatives begged me to reconsider, but what can I say, I embarked on this adventure solely for the advantage of extra money to buy rare 78s. It paid $5,000. It’s not as if I’m hard up; I have a fine job, almost zero debt, and can easily afford all the necessities. But the promise of extra cash was too good to be true.

Doctor Z didn’t even mention the name of the drug until the third or fourth day I had been coming in for doses and observation. He called it Orchestrex. I started on a low dose of 50 milligrams per day. To be truthful, I felt slightly different the moment I had my first taste, but I didn’t let on. The Doctor just stood there waiting for a reaction, grinning peculiarly, after he first injected me. But I was determined not to let this little side gig interfere with my normal life, and strolled out of there as fast as I could to get to work.

Day 7: So far, so good. Several days ago, Doctor Z told me the story behind the drug. He was looking for types particularly attuned to music and harmonics, and said the drug would stimulate that sensitivity further, eventually allowing the subject’s brain to create symphonies out of everyday sound – all in one’s head. At least, he hoped. Or a drug company hoped. Doctor Z expressed a desire to create an alternate world of sound that would balance out noise pollution. An interior ambience, of sorts. I’m skeptical, but what can I do? Hey, I love music, what the hell – if it actually works it’ll be like someone else in my head humming for me. All I’ve felt so far is a slight numbing. A little disappointing, I’m afraid.

The Doctor upped the dosage considerably during the third week – 500 milligrams, twice a day. It was kind of miffed about this, as it meant I had to travel back to the office two times a day – an irksome commute and difficult to explain to my boss. However, the thoughts of rare, fascinating old records kept dancing in my head. Finally I might be able to afford a mint disc of music from Malta, or Madagascar! I’d settle for just one of each!

Day 21: Three weeks on this drug and the only result I can describe to Doctor Z is that my body feels a little numb. That’s it. He’s pretty crestfallen, but I’m the one pumping myself full of narcotics. I suppose it could be worse – there are a myriad of other side effects I could be burdened with: blurry vision, loose bowels… I have a feeling Z is going to make me come in for doses three times a day next week, which seems dangerous.

I was correct in my thoughts. Doctor Z, in a fit of what, to me, seemed like brazen malpractice, upped my dosage to 1000 milligrams of Orchestrex, thrice daily. I started on a Monday, and by the time I had left his office and gotten on the freeway to head back to work, I knew the drug’s supposed effects were beginning to show. I pulled up to the corner of Sepulveda and Wilshire and felt nauseous with all the noise – it seemed every car horn, idling engine and acceleration was tuned precisely to “Let ‘Em In” by Wings. I pulled over to a payphone and called the Doctor. “You didn’t say anything about fuckin’ Paul McCartney!” “Relax. It’s starting to work – think of the music you love! Just focus on something and your subconscious, coupled with the drug, should take over.”

I exhaled, imagining Paul McCartney floating away with my breath, then concentrated on something simple – a twenties dance band number by Ben Pollack and His Park Central Orchestra. It worked. Soon, I was floating back to work on the freeway with a dopey smirk, the entire world around me in one of my favorite cartoonish, jumpy 1920s songs: “Futuristic Rhythm.” Instead of the dank hum of highway white noise, it was a small pickup band in Victor Studios in New York, playing away. My brain was indeed replacing extraneous sound, sound that wasn’t directed at me, with music. Although I hadn’t thought I had memorized this Ben Pollack tune, the Doc said that it, along with almost anything I had listened to more than once, lay dormant in my brain until stimulated by the Orchestrex. My fellow drivers – the men in tuxedos, the women in classy nightclub attire, all driving to Roseland in 1929 in their Nissan SUVs.

Day 30: I’m riddled with needle marks, but ecstatic in most other ways. Each morning I get up, I turn on the water to wash my face and instead of the noise of water, I hear a string quartet. A little typical I have to admit, but not, on the whole, unwelcome. Maybe I can change it to something more unique as time goes by. But how the hell is this happening? I turn on the television, exude a modicum of concentration, and instead of the crass Trident commercial, one of my favorite Ethiopian jazz pieces plays – with no voice over! Work has been a bit of problem – I sit like a chimp in my cubicle sweating and laughing. It’s a good thing I didn’t have any meetings next week, but if the Doctor wants to crank up the dosage, I’ve gotta take a couple of personal days. There’s no way one can function in a musical euphoria – I’d never hear the end of it from Lucille or Hanrahan. I can’t even hear the alarm clock, for God’s sake.

And up the dosage, he did. The courts later called it a “profound lapse in judgement” but I always stood up for the man. He and I were definitely on the same wavelength by the end of this experiment, despite the bumps in the road. At the start of my fifth week on Orchestrex, Doctor Z simply had me hooked up to a portable IV-unit which I would administer seven periodic doses of 3000 milligrams, per day. That’s 21,000 milligrams of Orchestrex in a 24-hour period. Okay, so he had no idea what he was doing. He did remember to tell me to be sure and eat square meals. Beyond that though, he wasn’t prepared. I showed up at his office, dripping sweat, after about 4 hours with the IV, and I could barely stand on my feet. My skin was visible through my wet clothes – tracks raced up and down my arms and legs. He propped me up on a chair and spoke. I couldn’t understand a word. It was shrieking feedback. A plume of projectile vomit came out of my mouth – but along with the vomit came the shriek of “Movin’ Out” by Billy Joel.

Doctor Z instantly clamped my mouth shut and looked around skittishly. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute…Okay, slowly…open…your mouth one more time.” I had no idea what he was trying to say, and winced back at him. He grabbed my jaw and forced it open, blaring a few thunderous, vomit-reeking bars of “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. The Orchestrex overdose had finally been reached. Overjoyed, he admitted me to the hospital, wheeled me to an abandoned room in the basement, set up an 8-track tape recorder and simply ordered me to open my mouth. For the remaining six days of my drug trial, Doctor Z kept me on the Orchestrex IV, recording dozens of tapes. His hands jittered as he opened each package of Ampex tape and threaded the reels. I don’t know what the hell he was hoping to capture – my constitution was so weak at that stage, the only songs I could think of were the easiest, the most banal. Extended dance mixes. Disco vamps. The sound that tumbled out of my open mouth was corroded. If all I could muster was something like “I’m Your Boogie Man”, with it’s repetitive beat and phrasings, the noise that came out of me was like KC and the Sunshine Band Live In a Ukrainian Septic System. Ancient, belched, and crude roarings.

I woke up in a moving taxi with five grand in my pocket. I asked the driver who put me here, but all he could muster was “the people.” Jesus! I called work and said I was going to be a little late and, typically, they barely expressed concern. I went home, showered and ate a bowl of some kind of fiber-laden cereal and basically got my life back to normal within hours. Doctor Z called me that night saying that he couldn’t tell me where he was, but he thanked me, and said not to pay attention to the bad things that would inevitably be said about him in the newspapers. He said he hoped I would be able to track down some of the tougher 78s in order to spend the extra money. I told him I was already on it, and had some connections in Europe who have access to some seriously rare African sides. The connection got fuzzy, and we said goodbye. Orchestrex went on the market as a mild stimulant, in 50 milligram pills.

Sketch for Children's Show

Darren! WONDERFUL to see you. Come here quickly – I want you to meet this simply marvelous little man. Darren Phelps, this is the gentleman who’s been entertaining us with such eloquent aplomb this evening. His name is V.H. Chesterton Coggs, and he’s been regaling us with stories from his latest book: Polo at Crown Manor. Have you read it?

The host’s eye sockets engorged and flexed into grossly exaggerated proportions as a thick fog crowded its way into the ornately decorated sitting room. The words to this conversation, which had actually taken place some seventy-five years ago in Bristol, England, materialized in mid-air and left the room, sucked up through a time-space continuum and within moments, inexplicably crept out of the mouths of a middle-aged couple who were shopping for ball gags.

“Is it possible to ever have enough ball gags?” one asked the other, in a whisper.
“No, sweetheart. It never is. It never is.”

Overcome with emotion, the store clerk wept.